Within its walls I spent a tolerably quiet night.

Next morning I awoke very early. The sun had only just risen; there was not a single cloud in the sky; all around was brilliant with the fresh light of the early sunbeams flashed back by yesterday's raindrops.

While a carriage was being got ready, I took a stroll through what had once been a fruit-garden, but was now a little wilderness, surrounding the house on all sides with its rich, odoriferous vegetation. Ah! how pleasant it was in the open air, beneath the clear sky, in which trembled the larks, from which streamed the silvery rain of their ringing notes! Actual dew had they borne aloft on their wings, and in the dew of fancy their songs seemed to have been steeped. I wandered along bare-headed, joyfully drawing long deep breaths.

On the slope of a shallow ravine, close to the garden hedge, a number of bee-hives were to be seen. A narrow path led up to them, gliding like a snake between compact walls of nettles and fern, above which, rose here and there, a stray stalk of dark green hemp. I strolled along this path and reached the bee-hives. Beside them stood the wattled hut which they occupied in winter. I glanced through its half-opened door-way. All was dark inside, and dry, and still; the air redolent of mint and balm. In one corner was a raised planking, and on it there seemed to be stretched a small figure, with a coverlet thrown over it. I was turning away when -- "Barin,[*] Barin, Peter Petrovich!" I heard a voice cry -- a voice weak, languid, hoarse, resembling the rustling of sedge in a pool. I stopped short.

"Peter Petrovich! Please come here," continued the voice.

It came to my ears from the corner where, as I have said, the planking stood.

I drew near -- and stopped in amazement. Before me lay a human being of some kind; but of what kind was it?

The face was so emaciated, so bronzed into one monotonous hue, that it was precisely like one of those depicted in old manuscripts. The nose was as sharp as the edge of a knife; of lips scarcely anything could be seen; from underneath the kerchief round the head some thin locks of yellowish hair straggled on to the forehead. The only touches of high light in the picture were contributed by the teeth and eyes. Under the chin, at the fold of the covering, two small hands, of the same bronzed hue as the face, were slowly working their bony fingers. When I looked more closely, I saw that the features were not only free from ungainliness, but were even finely cut -- but the whole face was strange, -- startling. What heightened the singular effect it produced upon me was that I could see, on those metallic cheeks, a smile striving, but unsuccessfully, to break forth:

"You do not recognize me, Barin?" whispered the voice again. It seemed as if it were merely exhaled from the scarcely moving lips. "But how could you recognize me? I am Loukeria. Do you recollect, I used to lead the Khorovods [*] at your mother's, in Spasskoe? I used to lead the singing, too, if you remember."

"Loukeria!" I exclaimed. "Can this be you?"

"Yes, Barin. I am Loukeria."

I knew not what to say, but stared as if stupifiedat that dark, motionless face, with its pale and death-like eyes fixed on mine. Was it possible? That mummy -- Loukeria, the beauty of the household, that tall, lithe, clear-skinned, rosy-cheeked girl, so given to laughter and dance and song! -- Loukeria, the bright Loukeria, whom all our lads courted, for whom, I myself, then a youngster of sixteen, had secretly sighed!

"Tell me, Loukeria," I said at last; "what can have happened to you?"

"A great trouble has befallen me! But don't be repelled by my misfortune, Barin.