“What do ye mean?” she stammered, feigning not to understand. “Do not pretend: we all know all about you both. Send Matthew about his business while it is yet time. If ye do, Yasyek will not believe what they say. He has been yearning for you; easily will you make him believe anything! Matthew has had a liking for your bed, but is not bound to it: get rid of him while you can.... A love! it passes by in a moment, as yesterday has passed: were you to lay down your life for it, it would not stay. A love—’tis but a Sunday dainty: who feeds on it daily will care not for it at all.—Folk say: ‘Love of heart makes us smart: when we wed, then we’re dead!’—It may be; but death with a goodman and children is better than wild outlawed freedom.—Do not whimper, but save yourself while it still is time. What if your man should cease to love you, because of this your deed, and chase you from his home? Whither should you go? To your ruin: to be the laughing-stock of everyone! Fool! Every man has breeches: Matthew and Kuba, both alike: everyone swears the same oaths, and is sweet as honey so long as his fondness endures.—Now think well, and take to heart what I say; for I, your aunt, wish you well.” But Teresa would hear no more. She fled away into the fields, and sat down in the rye to give a free course to her grief. But it was in vain that she attempted to think over Yagustynka’s advice. Her passion for Matthew was such that the very idea of giving him up made her writhe on the ground like a wounded beast. Some time elapsed before the sounds of a quarrel close at hand made her start to her feet. Just in front of the Voyt’s cottage a fierce brawl was in progress. The Voyt’s wife and Kozlova were loading each other with the fiercest invectives. Opposite to one another they stood, with the road and their respective enclosures between them, clad only in their smocks and petticoats, each panting with fury, reviling the other with all her might, and shaking her fists at her. The Voyt was loading his cart, and now and then glancing at a peasant from Modlitsa, who, sitting in the porch, enjoyed the scene with keen relish, and set the women on. The cries were heard afar; and soon many a head peeped from behind the neighbouring hedges and hut-corners. And, Lord! how they both stormed! The Voyt’s wife, usually so quiet and mild-tempered, was terribly on the rampage to-day, and her rage waxed higher every minute; and Kozlova, as of set purpose, taunted and mocked her, omitting nothing to increase her fury. “Talk, talk, talk, my lady Voyt!” she called out; “talk away! There’s no dog can outbark your ladyship!” “Not a week goes by, but something is missing from my premises! Laying hens—chickens—even an old goose—have disappeared. Aye, in my garden, in my orchard, I have untold losses to put up with! Ah, may the wrong done to me poison you! May it choke you to death!” “Very good!—Screech, old crow! Screech, my lady Voyt! ’Twill soothe you!”