“Ye have driven Simon away: work ye by yourself. He wants you not, is in no trouble, has a hut, has money, has a wife, has a cow—and is an out-and-out good farmer!”—But, saying these words, he took good care to keep out of her reach. “Aye, aye,” she answered, with a dreary sigh; “truly, that unnatural wretch has contrived to succeed in all things.” “Yes, and he manages so well that even Nastka is astonished!” “I must” (she spoke her thoughts aloud) “hire someone to work regularly, or take a farm-servant.” Andrew scratched his head, and said with some hesitation: “But why take a stranger, when Simon is there, if ye’ll but say the word?” “Do not meddle when you’re not asked!” she snarled; but all the same, she felt—and it was a bitter pill to swallow—that she would sooner or later have to give way and come to terms with Simon. But what made her most anxious was Yagna’s state. From her she could get no clue; and she went on piling surmises on surmises, unpleasant fancies on fancies not less unpleasant, till at last, one Saturday afternoon, she could bear it no longer, and—bearing a large duck with her as an offering—groped her way to the priest’s house. She came back only at evening, in great agitation, crying and wailing like an autumn wind at night; but, until she was alone with Yagna after supper, she spoke no word. Then, “Do you know,” she said, “what tales are afloat concerning you and Yanek?” “I am no lover of gossip!” her daughter answered unwillingly, raising her eyes, that shone with a feverish glow. “But you have to know this ... and to learn, too, that there’s no hiding things from neighbours’ eyes.—‘What’s done in silence is spoken of aloud.’—They say most fearful things of you.” Then she told her every particular that she had gleaned from the organist’s wife and from his Reverence. “... That very night they held judgment upon him; his father gave him a beating; the priest added some blows from his long pipe-stem; and he has been sent to Chenstohova, to protect him from you!—Do you hear that? Oh, think what you have done!” she cried indignantly. “Jesu Maria!—Yanek beaten!—Beaten!—O God, O God!” And she started up with a mad idea of doing something ... but sat down again and hissed between her teeth: “May their arms wither, may their hands rot off! And when the plague comes, may they not be spared!” She then wept bitterly, with the tears streaming from her swollen eyes, like blood from a freshly opened wound. Careless of her agony, Dominikova still continued to lash her with her tongue; and each word was a blow. She reminded her of all her many sins and transgressions, omitting not a single one, and pouring out before her all the bitterness that she had endured in silence for ever so long.