But day after day passed by, bringing no chance of seeing Velia alone. The harvest was gathered in, and concealment among the reeds became more risky. The men had time to fish in the river; the children were playing about; and very soon the cutting of the reeds would begin. Then it would be impossible to hide among them. Now, too, came the autumnal washing of clothes, after the harvest was over and before the winter set in. Troops of women and girls carried great bundles, hanging upon yokes, down to the little wooden pier, where the washing was done in the river, amid much laughing and gossiping. Michael was obliged to keep out of sight round a bend of the stream two or three hundred yards away. He could hear their voices, and often catch the words. Yarina stayed by the pier hour after hour, apparently watching her maid, but in reality hoping for a chance to speak to Velia, if the old Matoushka sent her down with any washing. But the old Matoushka had no intention of exposing her rags to the criticism and derision of her neighbours. She reflected that she was the widow of a priest. Waiting till the bulk of the merry party had gone home with their dripping burdens, she went down to the pier, with Velia dragging after her, broken-hearted and despairing. The harvest had brought no joy to her, for she had not been permitted to speak to one of her old neighbours and friends. The poor girl knelt down on the wet planks, and stooped over the water, washing the old clothing with her wasted hands and arms. The last peasant had gone, muttering a sulky "Good-night" to the old Matoushka. They were quite alone now. Behind Velia was her oppressor—the hard woman to whom she was a slave, and from whom she could not escape. A terrible winter lay before her; for in this, the misery of children is greater than that of beasts—that they can foresee as well as remember. Life was a confusing mystery and an intolerable burden to her. Why did not God let her die? Her misery had taken such hold upon her that she had forgotten even the prayers her mother had taught her. Only the Lord's Prayer, which she heard daily in the church, remained in her memory, but even that was now connected in her mind with blows and curses. The night was falling fast, but a lovely light was still lingering where the sun had gone down, and was reflected with changeful opal colours on the swift stream. She paused for a moment to look round, and then, as if some mischievous hand had snatched it from her, the old petticoat she was washing floated away down the shining river.