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Show THE DARK ,It‘tlliliS'l,‘ THE SCHOOL-HOl'SE . . . He always declared that no woman had ever touched vitch, Semyonov, Nikitin . . . yes, there was promise of his heart. much development here. We had dropped down into the valley and, at a sudden turn, saw the school-house in front of us. It is before me now as I write with its long low white-washed two-storied front, its dormer-windows, its roof faintly pink with a dark red bell-tower perched on the top. Behind it is a long green field stretching to where hills, faintly blue in the morning 5:) He had come to the war Voluntarily, forsaking a rerv lucrative practice. This was always a puzzle to me. He had no romantic notions about the war, no altruistic com- pulsions, no high conceptions of his duty . . . no one had worked more magnificently in the war than he. He could not be said to be popular amongst; us; we were all of as perhaps a little afraid of him. He cared, So obviously, for none of us. But we admired his Vitality, his courage, his independence. I myself was assured that he allowed us to see him only with the most casual superficiality. As he rode up to me I wondered how he and Nikitin would fare. These were two personalities worthy of attention. Also, what would he think of Trenehard? IIis opinion of any one had great weight amongst us. I had not seen him last night and he leant over his horse now and shook hands with me with a warm friendliness that surprised me. He laughed, joked, was evidently in excellent. spirits. He rode on a little, then came back to us. "I like your new Sister," he said. "She's charming." "She‘s engaged," I answered, "to the new Englishman." "Ah! the new Englishmanl" He laughed. "Apologies, Ivan Andreieviteh (myself), to your country . . . but really . . . what's he groin;r to do with us ?" "He'll work," I said, surprised at the heat that I felt in 'I'renchard's defence. "He's a splendid follow." "I have no deiil)t"--again Semyonov laughed. "We all know your enthusiasms, Ivan Andreieviteh, . . . but an Englishman! Ye Boga! . . ." light, rose. with V91" gradual slopes against the sky. To the right I could see there was a garden hidden now by trees, on the left a fine old barn, its thatched roof deep brown, the props supporting it black with age. In front of the pillared porch there was a little square of white. cobble-stones and in the middle of these an old grey sundial. The whole place was bathed in the absolute peace of the spring niornine. As we drove up a little old lady with two tiny children clinging to her skirts came to the porch. I eould see, as. we came up to her, that she was trembling with terror; she put. up her hand to her white. hair, clutched again desperately the two (children, found at last her voice and hoped that wo would be 5 indulgent." Molozov assured her that she would sull'er in no kind of way, that we must use her school for a week or so and that any loss or damage that she incurred would of course be made up to her. She was then, of a sudden, imna-nsely fluent, explaining that her liiisliaiiile‘zl most excellent husband to me in every way one might say" had been dead fifteen years now, that. her two sons were both lighting for the Austrians, that she looked after the school assisted by her daughter. These were, her grandchildren. . . . Such a terrible year she, in all her long life, had never remem- "Engaged to that girl l" I heard him repeat to himself as bered. again he rode forward. Trenehard, little Andrey Vassilie- 53 She . . . |