A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
'No,' he answered, with a vigorous sweep of the axe.
'She's dead, I suppose?'
'No . . . yes . . . she's dead,' he added, and turned away. I was silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me.
'She ran away with a travelling pedlar,' he brought out with a bitter smile. The little girl hung her head; the baby waked up and began crying; the little girl went to the cradle. 'There, give it him,' said Biryuk, thrusting a dirty feeding-bottle into her hand. 'Him, too, she abandoned,' he went on in an undertone, pointing to the baby. He went up to the door, stopped, and turned round.
'A gentleman like you,' he began, 'wouldn't care for our bread, I dare say, and except bread, I've'
'I'm not hungry.'
'Well, that's for you to say. I would have heated the samovar, but I've no tea. . . . I'll go and see how your horse is getting on.'
He went out and slammed the door. I looked round again, The hut struck me as more melancholy than ever. The bitter smell of stale smoke choked my breathing unpleasantly. The little girl did not stir from her place, and did not raise her eyes; from time to time she jogged the cradle, and timidly pulled her slipping smock up on to shoulder; her bare legs hung motionless.
'What's your name?' I asked her.
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