The sun was high above the cabin, the afternoon hot. The orchards stood motionless, the sunlight trembled through their rustling leaves, and many a petal floated down upon the grass. Bees buzzed among the apple-tree boughs; athwart the greenery, the mill-pond shimmered, and the birds were all hushed. A pleasant afternoon drowsiness pervaded the place. Klemba, who wanted to keep awake, sauntered over to his potato-pit. A little later he returned, puffing hard at his extinguished pipe, and spluttering, and throwing back the long hair that had fallen over his brow. “Have you seen?” his wife asked him, peeping out at the door. “I have. Our potatoes will only last us till harvest, if we cook them but once a day!” “Once a day only!” “What’s to be done? We are so many!—Ten hungry mouths, the ravenous maws beneath them!—We must think of something.” “Not of the heifer, at any rate. I tell you, I will not have her sold. Do what ye will, the cattle must not go!” He waved his hands, as if to drive away an importunate wasp; when she had gone, he lit his pipe again. “A pig-headed old thing!... If needs must.... A heifer’s no holy thing to die for!” The sun now shone in his eyes; he only turned his back, and puffed more slowly. Loosening his girdle (the meal of potatoes lay heavy upon him), he began to nod. The doves cooed on the thatch, and the leaves were quivering with slumberous murmurs. “Thomas!” It was Agata’s voice. He opened his eyes. She was sitting beside him, with an anxious look. “These months before harvest are hard times for you,” she said. “If ye are willing, I have a little money: ye could take it. I was keeping it for my burial; but if ye are so hard pressed, I’ll lend it. Why sell the heifer? I stood by when she was dropped; she’s of a good race of milkers. Perchance I may, God willing, live on till harvest ... and then ye will give the money back. ’Tis no shame, even for a farmer, to take from his own folk, when in need. So here!” And she pressed into his hand three roubles, all in silver _zloty_. “Nay, take it back: I shall manage.” “Here, I can add half a rouble more. Take it,” she begged him in a whisper. “Nay. But thanks notwithstanding. It is exceeding kind of you.” “There, then: here are thirty _zloty_ all told: pray take them!” She looked into her money-bag, counting out five-kopek bits and keeping down her tears. It was a hard sacrifice for her; every coin she told out gave her a sharp pang. The money glittered very temptingly in the sun. His eyes shone with desire as he gloated over them; they were all new bright pieces. But, heaving a deep sigh, he mastered himself with a great effort, and said to her: “Hide all that carefully, or folk may see it, and peradventure rob you.” She still went on imploring him in a low voice; but he said no more, and she slowly put her treasures back again. “Wherefore will ye not dwell with us?” he asked her, after a while.