dark cloth pantaloons, an old neck-handkerchief, and on his head an old brimmed cap considerably faded and worn.

But even in this dress, so simple and so worn, there was something which showed that the old man had still a certain care for his appearance: the coarse shirt which showed below his cravat was very white; the sukmane spotless and whole; the shoes of linden bark which covered his feet were tied carefully with narrow strips of linen.

The youth who was standing beside him and who was neither peasant nor servant, but who looked like a boatman's apprentice newly enlisted, had the features of the Polesian race, small, very bright brown eyes, long brown hair falling over his neck, a face almost square, a rather large mouth, a well-shaped turned-up nose, and a low but intelligent brow.

His entire countenance was expressive of cheerful good-humour heightened by the natural gayety of youth and utter carelessness of the future.

"There are three brothers of us at home," he was saying to the old man. "My lord has allowed me to hire myself as a boatman on the rafts; and I assure you I like such a life much better than the one I spend at home, doing all sorts of drudgery and melting behind the stove."

The old man shook his head gently.

"I see very well," he replied, "that you will no longer listen to my advice since you have got the desire to go on a voyage into your head. When youth wishes for anything, nothing but want can dissuade him from it. Go, then, and may God guide you, but this shall not prevent my telling you--"

The young man burst into a merry laugh.

"Let me first tell you what I think," said he, "and then I will listen to what you have to say. First, it is not a bad thing for a young man like me to see something more of the world than may be viewed from his window; secondly, I shall certainly be much more comfortable here with this Jew, who, though he cannot tell why, is always afraid, than with our lord and master, the steward; and last, but by no means least, I shall pick up during the voyage enough money to pay the taxes."

"All that is very true," replied the other, "and there are other things you may gain besides; but an old man looks at it in a different light. During these voyages, or rather, these wanderings, one becomes weaned from one's old home and unaccustomed to regular work, one gets into the habit of roaming about; and there is nothing so sad as to become dissatisfied with one's birthplace. When, after that, one returns to one's old home, everything seems strange and distasteful: the bread tastes bitter; the soup is poor; the neighbours are wearisome, and the daily work is a burden. At first one goes to the inn to talk with the Jew for some sort of distraction; then one grows accustomed to drinking brandy, and ruin surely follows. If I had a son, I never would allow him to go wandering about the world in company with a Jew. Let him whom God has appointed to live peacefully in his cottage take care never to stray away from its threshold."

The young boatman became thoughtful. "But," he replied, after a moment's pause, "do you believe that one so easily forgets all that has been about him from infancy, all his former life? No, no; surely not, my father. Can it be any harm to go and see the world so as to have something to talk about to one's children when old age comes? Would you not be constantly sighing for home and the good friends left behind, rather than forgetting them and laughing at them? Would not home food taste better after you had eaten the bread of strangers?"

"That is perhaps all true, if one continues honest and discreet,--if one lives in the fear of God; and then the voyages on the rafts might be of some service," answered the old man. "But it is so easy to grow dissipated, to get in the habit of seeing and desiring new things, and then grow weary and lounge about with arms folded. On the raft there are so many occasions for drinking: the unbelieving Jew does not spare the brandy at every mill, at every lock; and the men, from continually tasting it, soon go to the devil. What matters it to the Jew merchant what becomes of the souls of his boatmen, provided his wood arrives safely in Germany, and the thalers flow into his purse? As for me, I am an old man now, as you see, yet never in all my life have I had any desire to see what is going on far away in the rest of the world. I never have gone far from the threshold of the house in which I was born, and I have now only one prayer to offer to my God, and that is that I may be allowed to lie here in peace when I die."

"Bless me! And are you satisfied?"

"Perfectly, perfectly! And I ought to be, because I am no longer fit for the world, and I ought to be content to have in my old age all that is necessary to life,--a little corner and a bowl of soup. But I have had many sad moments too, and I am persuaded that it is much easier to endure poverty, weariness, and misfortune when one is among one's own people."

"Is this, then, your native land?" said the young man.

"Yes, here I was born, here I have dragged out my pitiful existence, and here I shall end it in peace," replied the old man, a little sadly. "It is not for the mushrooms to grow big like the oaks."

"It must be a strange story."

"What?"

"Your own, to be sure."

"Mine? Have I a history? Poverty was born, and poverty is dead."

"Ah, please! We have nothing to do this evening; I dare not go to the inn. I beg you, good father, do tell me something of your life. It is so lonely there all by myself on the raft; in this way we can while away an hour or two, and I shall have learned something from you."

The old man smiled sweetly.

"But what can I tell you? There has been nothing unusual in my life; there are a great many lives like mine in this world. I have lived all alone, without friends, without brothers. Not even one being calls me cousin; not a living soul bears my name. Moreover, my child, you know that what gives an old man most pleasure is to talk about the days of his youth; therefore, if you are wise you will not call the wolf from the forest, for you never will be able to get rid of him again."

"Never mind; only talk to me, talk to me! I shall always be glad to listen."

"Well," began the old man, "I remember that when I was a very little boy I used to run about here in this very spot, on the shores of the Horyn, with other little villagers of my age. Ah, it mattered not then whether my head was bare or my shirt torn; no other days that I can recall seem so joyous and so sweetly happy as those."

"And your parents?"

"I do not remember them. I was six years old when they died of a terrible fever; and as they had come from Wolhynia, I had no relatives here, and was entirely alone. I see as through a mist the village watchman leading me away, as we came out of the cemetery to a neighbouring hut, where an old woman who called herself my foster-mother gave me a large plate of soup which I devoured greedily. I had eaten nothing for two days except a crust of dry bread which I had concealed in the bosom of my shirt. The next day I was sent into the fields to mind the geese; after that I was made to take care of the pigs; and finally, when it was found that I was not awkward, and that I knew how to take care of cattle, I was appointed to take the village cows to the meadow. Oh, how sweet a herdsman's life is! It is true that we had to go off with the cows at daybreak through the long grass all wet with dew; but to make up for it, we had a good nap in the middle of the day under the trees, when the cattle were at a safe distance from the