Elena walked with her head bent and her eyes fixed straight before her. She feared nothing, she considered nothing; she wanted to see Insarov once more. She went on, not noticing that the sun had long ago disappeared behind heavy black clouds, that the wind was roaring by gusts in the trees and blowing her dress about her, that the dust had suddenly risen and was flying in a cloud along the road. . . . Large drops of rain were falling, she did not even notice it; but it fell faster and heavier, there were flashes of lightning and peals of thunder. Elena stood still looking round. . . . Fortunately for her, there was a little old broken-down chapel that had been built over a disused well not far from the place where she was overtaken by the storm. She ran to it and got under the low roof. The rain fell in torrents; the sky was completely overcast. In dumb despair Elena stared at the thick network of fast-falling drops. Her last hope of getting a sight of Insarov was vanishing. A little old beggar-woman came into the chapel, shook herself, said with a curtsy: ‘Out of the rain, good lady,’ and with many sighs and groans sat down on a ledge near the well. Elena put her hand into her pocket; the old woman noticed this action and a light came into her face, yellow and wrinkled now, though once handsome. ‘Thank you, dear gracious lady,’ she was beginning. There happened to be no purse in Elena’s pocket, but the old woman was still holding out her hand.

‘I have no money, grannie,’ said Elena, ‘but here, take this, it will be of use for something.’

She gave her her handkerchief.

‘O-oh, my pretty lady,’ said the beggar, ‘what do you give your handkerchief to me for? For a wedding-present to my grandchild when she’s married? God reward you for your goodness!’

A peal of thunder was heard.

‘Lord Jesus Christ,’ muttered the beggar-woman, and she crossed herself three times. ‘Why, haven’t I seen you before,’ she added after a brief pause. ‘Didn’t you give me alms in Christ’s name?’

Elena looked more attentively at the old woman and recognised her.

‘Yes, grannie,’ she answered, ‘wasn’t it you asked me why I was so sorrowful?’

‘Yes, darling, yes. I fancied I knew you. And I think you’ve a heart-ache still. You seem in trouble now. Here’s your handkerchief, too, wet from tears to be sure. Oh, you young people, you all have the same sorrow, a terrible woe it is!’

‘What sorrow, grannie?’

‘Ah, my good young lady, you can’t deceive an old woman like me. I know what your heart is heavy over; your sorrow’s not an uncommon one. Sure, I have been young too, darling. I have been through that trouble too. Yes. And I’ll tell you something, for your goodness to me; you’ve won a good man, not a light of love, you cling to him alone; cling to him stronger than death. If it comes off, it comes off — if not, it’s in God’s hands. Yes. Why are you wondering at me? I’m a fortune-teller. There, I’ll carry away your sorrow with your handkerchief. I’ll carry it away, and it’s over. See the rain’s less; you wait a little longer. It’s not the first time I’ve been wet. Remember, darling; you had a sorrow, the sorrow has flown, and there’s no memory of it. Good Lord, have mercy on us!’

The beggar-woman got up from the edge of the well, went out of the chapel, and stole off on her way. Elena stared after her in bewilderment. ‘What does this mean?’ she murmured involuntarily.

The rain grew less and less, the sun peeped out for an instant. Elena was just preparing to leave her shelter. . . . Suddenly, ten paces from the chapel, she saw Insarov. Wrapt in a cloak he was walking along the very road by which Elena had come; he seemed to be hurrying home.

She clasped the old rail of the steps for support, and tried to call to him, but her voice failed her . . . Insarov had already passed by without raising his head.

‘Dmitri Nikanorovitch!’ she said at last.

Insarov stopped abruptly, looked round. . . . For the first minute he did not know Elena, but he went up to her at once. ‘You! you here!’ he cried.

She walked back in silence into the chapel. Insarov followed Elena. ‘You here?’ he repeated.

She was still silent, and only gazed upon him with a strange, slow, tender look. He dropped his eyes.

‘You have come from our house?’ she asked.

‘No . . . not from your house.’

‘No?’ repeated Elena, and she tried to smile. ‘Is that how you keep your promises? I have been expecting you ever since the morning.’

‘I made no promise yesterday, if you remember, Elena Nikolaevna.’

Again Elena faintly smiled, and she passed her hand over her face. Both face and hands were very white.

‘You meant, then, to go away without saying good-bye to us?’

‘Yes,’ replied Insarov in a surly, thick voice.

‘What? After our friendship, after the talks, after everything. . . . Then if I had not met you here by chance.’ (Elena’s voice began to break, and she paused an instant) . . . ‘you would have gone away like that, without even shakin............