With her habitual subjection to the thoughts and moods of her elder sister, Elena said: “It is a rude word. I feel a reminiscence of a once helpless serfdom in it.” “Nevertheless this word is now sufficiently literary,” said Piotr, with a vague smile. “And why shouldn’t one use it? It’s not the word that matters. We have seen countless instances with our own eyes of the progress of the spiritual bossiak[4] who is savagely indifferent to everything, who is hopelessly wild, malicious, and drunken for generations to come. He will crush everything--science, art, everything! A good characteristic specimen of a _kham_ is your Stchemilov, with whom, Elisaveta, you sympathize so strongly. He’s a familiar young fellow, a handsome flunkey.” Piotr fixed his eyes on Elisaveta. She replied calmly: “I think you very unjust to him. He is a good man.” Every one was glad when dinner was ended. It was a provoking conversation. Even the imperturbable Miss Harrison rose from her place rather sooner than usual. Rameyev went to his own room to get his hour’s nap. The young people went into the garden. Misha and Elena ran downhill to the river. They had a keen desire to run one after the other and to laugh. “Elisaveta!” called out Piotr. His voice trembled nervously. Elisaveta paused. She now stood within the deep shadow of an old linden. She looked questioningly at Piotr, her graceful bare arms folded on her breast; suddenly her heart beat faster. What a power of bewitchment was in those most lovable arms--oh, why did not some sudden impulse of passion throw them upon his shoulders! “May I speak a few words to you, Elisaveta?” asked Piotr. Elisaveta flushed a little, lowered her head, and said quietly: “Let’s sit down somewhere.” She walked along the path towards the small summer-house which looked down the slope. Piotr followed her silently. In silence also they ascended the steep passage. Elisaveta seated herself and rested her arms upon the low rail of the open summer-house. The undulating distances lay before her in one broad panoramic sweep--a view intimate from childhood, and which never failed to awaken the same delightful emotion. She was looking no longer at the separate objects--Nature poured herself out like music before her, in an inexhaustible play of colour and of soothing sound. Piotr stood before her and looked at her handsome face. The setting Dragon caressed Elisaveta’s face with its warm light; the skin thus suffused exulted in its radiance and bloom. They were silent. Both felt a painful awkwardness. Piotr was nervously breaking twigs from a birch near by. Elisaveta began: “What is it you wish to tell me?” A cold remoteness, almost enmity, sounded in her deeply agitated voice. She felt her own harshness, to soften which she smiled gently and timidly. “What’s there to say,” began Piotr quietly and irresolutely, “but one and the same thing. Elisaveta, I love you!”