When summer came, she would go to her children’s grave and sit there, rending her heart with memories of what had been, and with thoughts of what might have been. She was specially tortured by the idea that the children might have remained alive had they lived in a town where they could have received medical aid. “Why? What for?” thought she. “Josy and I want nothing from anyone, except that he should be allowed to live the life he was born to, and which his grandfathers and great-grandfathers lived; and that I should be allowed to live with him and love him, and love my little ones, and bring them up. But they must needs come and torment him and banish him, and rob me of what is dearer to me than all the world. Why? What for?”

She put the question to men and to God, and could not imagine the possibility of any answer. And without an answer there was no life for her; and so her life came to a standstill. Their poor existence in exile, which she with her feminine taste and refinement had formerly known how to adorn, now became intolerable, not only to her but also to Migoúrski, who suffered on her account, and did not know how to help her.