"There are many good people there." "I did what I could for the Menshovs and hope they will be freed," said Nekhludoff. "May God grant it. Such a wonderful little woman," she said, repeating her description of the old woman, and slightly smiled. "I am going to-day to St. Petersburg. Your case will be heard soon, and, I hope, will be reversed." "It is all the same now, whether they reverse it or not," she said. "Why now?" "So," she answered, and stealthily glanced at him inquiringly. Nekhludoff understood this answer and this glance as a desire on her part to know if he were still holding to his decision, or had changed it since her refusal. "I don't know why it is all the same to you," he said, "but to me it really is all the same whether you are acquitted or not. In either case, I am ready to do what I said," he said, with determination. She raised her head, and her black, squinting eyes fixed themselves on his face and past it, and her whole face became radiant with joy. But her words were in an entirely different strain. "Oh, you needn't talk that way," she said. "I say it that you may know." "Everything has been already said, and there is no use talking any more," she said, with difficulty repressing a smile. There was some noise in the ward. A child was heard crying. "I think I am called," she said, looking around with anxiety. "Well, then, good-by," he said. She pretended not to see his extended hand, turned round, and endeavoring to hide her elation, she walked away with quick step. "What is taking place in her? What is she thinking? What are her feelings? Is she putting me to a test, or is she really unable to forgive me? Can she not say what she thinks and feels, or simply will not? Is she pacified or angered?" Nekhludoff asked himself, but could give no answer. One thing he knew, however, and that was that she had changed; that a spiritual transformation was taking place in her, and this transformation united him not only to her, but to Him in whose name it was taking place. And this union caused him joyful agitation. Returning to the ward where eight children lay in their beds, Maslova began to remake one of the beds, by order of the Sister, and, leaning over too far with the sheet, slipped and nearly fell. The convalescing boy, wound in bandages to his neck, began to laugh. Maslova could restrain herself no longer, and seating herself on the bedstead she burst into loud laughter, infecting several children, who also began to laugh. The Sister angrily shouted: "What are you roaring about? Think you this is like the place you came from? Go fetch the rations." Maslova stopped laughing, and taking a dish went on her errand, but exchanging looks with the bandaged boy, who giggled again.