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 ting scythes, borne by the breeze across from the telyega, ceased. One of the peasants got up and came over to the calash. "Say, hurry up," cried the bookkeeper, angrily, to the muzhik, who, in his bare feet, came leisurely along the ruts of the dry and little-traveled road, "come here."

The old man, whose curly hair was bound round with a piece of bast, and whose bent back was black with perspiration, quickened his step, and came up to the calash, and took hold of the rim with his sunburnt hand.

"Vozdvizhenskoye? the manor-house? to the count's?" he repeated; "why, all you have to do's to drive on up the hill. First turn to the left. Then straight along the preshpekt and that'll bring you there. Who do you want? The count himself?"

"Do you know whether they are at home, galubchik?" asked Darya Aleksandrovna, not mentioning names, for she did not know how to ask for Anna even of a muzhik.

"Must be at home," said the muzhik, shuffling along in his bare feet and leaving in the dust the tracks of his soles with their five toes. "They must be at home," he repeated, evidently liking to talk. "This afternoon some new guests came. Guests, such quantities of them! .... What do you want," he cried, addressing his comrade, who shouted something from the cart, "They've all been out on horseback. We saw them go by. They must be back by this time. But whose folks are you?"

"We have come from a long way," said the coachman, climbing upon the box. "So then, it is not far."

"I tell you, you are almost there. If you drive on ...." said he, shifting his hand on the rim of the calash.

His young comrade, healthy-looking and thick-set, also came up to the carriage.

"Do you need any help in getting in the harvest?" he asked.

"I don't know, galubchik."