mind, but for all that the nearer he came to the village the more he felt the painful uncertainty about what “dreadfully particular” thing could have happened during his absence. And though he thought and thought till his dear, good head was quite bewildered, he could not think of anything substantial, or at all likely to have taken place. Already his quiet, peaceful village lay before him; already he distinguished in the evening haze the not over beauteous outlines of the poor church, of the high cross in the churchyard, and of his own modest dwelling. He did not remark any particular stir anywhere, nor any suspicious sounds, besides the well-known lowing of cows which came from different quarters.
What could have happened in his dwelling?
Cvok went on to the wicket-gate, and turning the handle, stood still for a moment; then, as if he had made up his mind, quickly hastened up the few steps to the door, entered the hall, and went into the parlour, which was on the left. It was half dark already, and there, in the spacious room, was spinster Naninka walking up and down, crooning a low song with her cracked-old voice, and holding some longish white bundle in her arms. At that moment, too, a baby’s cry was heard to come from the bundle. A real baby’s cry, and no mistake! Cvok seemed to see everything twirling round before his eyes.
“I am glad you are come, reverend sir,” said spinster Naninka in a hushed voice. “I am no longer able to keep this little worm quiet. It is crying with hunger, poor little thing! I must go and warm some milk for it. There, take and nurse it a little while, till I get the milk ready. You had better croon a bit to keep it quiet; I’ll
C
