But I'm not afraid of being alone; I even prefer being so. No, Barin, don't disturb me, don't send me to a hospital. Thank you all the same. You mean it kindly, but please let me be as I am."

"As you like, as you like, Loukeria. You see I thought it would do you good --"

"I know it was meant for my good, Barin. But who is there who can be sure he is right in helping another? Who can enter into another's heart? Let every one help himself! -- you'd hardly believe me, but sometimes when I lie here all alone, it's exactly as if there wasn't another living creature in the whole world beside myself. Just I alive and no one else! And then it seems to me as if a shadow came over me from on high, and I become rapt in meditation. It's wonderful!"

"And what do you meditate about at such times, Loukeria?"

"That's impossible to say, Barin; there's no explaining it. Besides, I forget all about it afterward. It comes just like a cloud. The rain falls, all is fair and fresh, but I don't remember of what nature it was. Only I say to myself: 'If there had been any one here, nothing of the sort would have happened, and I should have felt nothing -- except my troubles.'"

Loukeria drew a long breath, not without difficulty. Her lungs were evidently as little at her command as the rest of her frame.

"When I look at you, Barin," she began anew, "I can see that you are very sorry for me. But you must not pity me too much, -- really you must not. I'll tell you something. Sometimes even now I -- you recollect, don't you, how merry I used to be in old days? Well even now I sing songs at times."

"Sing songs?"

"Yes, songs, old songs, such as are sung at Christmas, at marriages, in Khorovods; all sorts of songs. I used to know a good many, and I haven't forgotten them. Only I never sing dance-songs now. In my present condition, that wouldn't be becoming!"

"And how do you sing them? To yourself?"

"Yes, and aloud too. I can't sing loud, of course, but still -- I told you, you know, that there's a young girl who comes to see me. She's an orphan, so she's quick. Well, I've been giving her lessons. She's already learned four songs. Don't you believe me? Well then, I'll soon show you --"

Loukeria drew a long breath. The idea that this almost inanimate being was about to sing gave me an involuntary shudder. But before I could say a word, there began to sound in my ears a prolonged note, scarcely audible, but still true and clear; and after it, followed a second and a third. "In the Meadows," was the song Loukeria chose. She sang without altering the stony expression of her face; even her eyes remained fixed. But how pathetic was the sound of that poor feeble voice, wavering like a thread of smoke! How earnestly did the singer strive to throw her whole soul into her song! It was no longer a shudder of repugnance which I felt; an inexpressible compassion took hold of all my heart.