"
The three young men standing at the burning pile conversed in a low
voice. At their feet the sick man lay as if dead, covered with the
short fur coats. The sky paled, the shadows dissolved, the leaves
shivered softly, awaiting the sun.
"Well, then, we must say good-by," said Rybin, pressing Sofya's
hand. "How are you to be found in the city?"
"You must look for me," said the mother.
The young men in a close group walked up to Sofya, and silently
pressed her hand with awkward kindness. In each of them was evident
grateful and friendly satisfaction, though they attempted to conceal
the feeling which apparently embarrassed them by its novelty.
Smiling with eyes dry with the sleepless night, they looked in
silence into Sofya's eyes, shifting from one foot to the other.
"Won't you drink some milk before you go?" asked Yakob.
"Is there any?" queried Yefim.
"There's a little."
Ignaty, stroking his hair in confusion, announced:
"No, there isn't; I spilled it."
All three laughed. They spoke about milk, but the mother and Sofya
felt that they were thinking of something else, and without words
were wishing them well. This touched Sofya, and produced in her,
too, embarrassment and modest reserve, which prevented her from
saying anything more than a quiet and warm "Thank you, comrades.
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