“What can it mean that Polikéy does not come?” asked the mistress impatiently of Dounyásha, who was dressing her hair. “Where is Polikéy? Why has he not come?”

Aksyúta again flew to the serfs’ quarters, and again rushed into the passage, calling Polikéy to her mistress.

“Why, he went long ago,” answered Akoulína, who, having washed Mary, had just put her baby-boy into the washing-trough, and was moistening his thin short hair, regardless of his cries. The boy screamed, puckered his face, and tried to catch hold of something with his helpless little hands. Akoulína supported his plump, dimpled little back with one large hand, while washing him with the other.

“See if he has not fallen asleep somewhere,” said she, looking round anxiously.