In the woods, in the deep woods, was an open glade in which stood the house of the forester Stephan. The house was built of logs packed with moss, and the roof was thatched with straw; hard by the house stood two outbuildings; in front of it was a piece of fenced-in ground, and an old well with a long, crooked sweep; the water in the well was covered with a green vegetation at the edges.

Opposite the windows grew sunflowers and wild hollyhocks, high, stately, and covered with blossoms as if with a swarm of gorgeous butterflies; between the sunflowers there peeped the red heads of the poppy; around the hollyhocks entwined sweet peas with pink blossoms and morning-glories; close to the ground grew nasturtiums, marigolds, primroses, and asters, pale because they were shaded from the sunlight by the leaves of the hollyhocks and sunflowers.

The fenced ground on either side of the pathway leading to the house was planted with vegetables—carrots, beets, and cabbage; further off in a separate fenced-in lot there waved with each breath of wind the tender blue flower of the flax; still beyond could be seen the dark green of the potato patch; the rest of the clearing was checkered with the variegated shades of the different cereals that ran to the edge of the lake which touched the glade on one side.

Near to the house a few trees were growing. Some were cherry trees, and one was a birch, with long, slender branches which swayed in the wind, and with every breeze its leaves touched the dilapidated moss-covered straw thatch of the roof; when the stronger gusts of wind bent its boughs to the wall, and pressed its twigs and the waves of leaves against the roof, it would seem as if the tree loved the house and embraced it.

In this tree the sparrows made their home; the rustling of the leaves and twigs commingled with the chirp and joyous noise of the birds; in the eaves of the house the doves had built their nests, and the place was filled with their speech, cooing and calling to each other, entreating and discussing as is customary between doves, these noisy and talkative people.

At times it happened that they were startled by some unknown cause; then around the house was heard a loud flapping, the air was filled with the whirl of wings and a multitude of white-feathered breasts; you could hear tumult, noise and excited cries—the whole flock flew out suddenly, circled round the house, now near, now far off. Sometimes they melted in the blue, sometimes their white feathers reflected the sunlight, again they hung over the house, undulating in the air, and alighting at last like a downfall of snowflakes on the gray straw of the roof.

If this occurred in the rosy morning or in the splendor of the red setting sun, then in the glory of the air these doves were not white, but tinted pink, and settled on the roof and birch tree as flames or scattered rose leaves.

At twilight, when the sun had hidden itself beyond the woods, this cooing under the roof and chirping in the birch tree became gradually quiet. The sparrows and the doves shook the dew from their wings and prepared to sleep; sometimes one of them gave voice once more, but more rarely, more softly, more drowsily, and then all was silent—the dusk was falling from the heavens upon the earth. The house, cherry trees, and birch were losing their form, mingling together, melting, and veiled in a mist which rose from the lake.

Around the glade, as far as the eye could reach, there stretched the wall of dark pine trees and thick undergrowth. This wall was broken in one place by a wide dividing line, which reached to the edge of the lake. The lake was a very large one, the opposite side was nearly lost to view, and in the mist could be hardly discerned the red roof and steeple of a church, and the black line of the woods closing the horizon beyond the church.

The pines were looking from the high sandy banks upon their reflection in the lake as if in a mirror, and it seemed as if there was another forest in the water; and when the trees were swaying on the earth they were also swaying in the water, and when they quivered on the earth they seemed to quiver in the water; as they stood in the still air motionless, then every needle of the pines was painted distinctly on the smooth, unruffled surface, and the straight trunks of the trees standing like rows of pillars reaching afar off into infinity. In the middle of the lake the water in the daytime reflected the sun, and in the morning and the evening the glories of its rising and its setting; at night the moon and stars; and it seemed to be as deep as the dome of the sky above us is high, beyond the sun, moon, and stars.

In the house dwelt the forester, named Stephan, and his daughter, Kasya, a maiden of sixteen. Kasya was the light of the household, as bright and fresh as the morning. She was brought up in great innocence and in the fear of God. Her uncle, who was now dead, and who was a poor but devout man, the organist of the neighboring church, had taught her to read her prayer book, and her education was perfected by her communing with nature. The bees taught her to work, the doves taught her purity, the happy sparrows to speak joyfully to her father, the quiet water taught her peace, the serenity of the sky taught her contemplation, the matin-bell of the distant church called her to devotion, and the universal good in all nature, which reflected the love of God, sank deep into her soul.

Therefore the father and Kasya led a peaceful and happy life, surrounded by the silence and solitude of the woods.

One noon, before Ascension Day, Stephan came home to his dinner. He had visited a large tract of the forest, so he arrived weary, having returned through the thickets of the swamp. Kasya placed the dinner on the table, and after they had finished and she had fed the dog and washed the dishes, she said:

“Papa.”

“What is it?”

“I shall go into the woods.”

“Go, go,” adding jestingly, “and let some wolf or wild beast devour you.”

“I shall go and gather herbs. To-morrow is Ascension Day and they will be needed in the church.”

“If so, you can go.”

She covered her head with a yellow kerchief embroidered with blue flowers, and looking for her basket she began singing:

“The falcon came flying, the falcon came grey.”

The old man began to grumble: “If you were as fond of working as you are of singing.”Kasya, who was standing on her tiptoes to look on a shelf, turned her head to her father, laughed merrily, and showing her white teeth, sang again as if to tease him:

“He hoots in the woods and the cuckoo’s his prey.”

“You would be glad yourself to be a cuckoo until a falcon came,” said the old man. “Perhaps ’tis falcon who is at the turpentine works? but this is folly. You can’t earn a piece of bread by singing.”

Kasya again sang:

“Hoot not thou, my falcon, unhappy thy quest,
In the depths of the lake thy cuckoo doth rest.”

Then she said:

“Wilt thou decorate the room with the evergreens for to-morrow? I shall return in time to milk the cows, but they should be brought from the pasture.”

She found her basket, kissed her father, and went out. Old Stephan got his unfinished fishing-net, and seated himself on a bench outside the door. He gathered his twine, and half-closing one eye he tried to thread his netting needle; after several attempts he succeeded and began to work.

From time to time he watched Kasya. She was walking on the left side of the lake; against the background of the sandy banks she stood out in relief as if in a picture. Her white waist and red striped skirt and yellow kerchief glistened in the sunlight like a variegated flower. Though it was spring the heat was unbearable. After she had gone about half a mile she turned aside and disappeared into the woods. The afternoon hours were hot in the sun, but in the shade of the trees it was quite cool. Kasya pressed forward, suddenly stopped, smiled, and blushed like a rose.In front of her in the pathway stood a youth about eighteen years of age.

This youth was the turpentine worker, from the edge of the woods, who was now on his way to visit Stephan.

“The Lord be praised!” said he.

“Forever and ever,” answered she, and in her confusion she covered her face with her apron, peeping shyly out of a corner of it and smiling at her companion.

“Kasya,” said he.

“What is it, John?”

“Is your father at home?”

“He is.”

The turpentine worker, poor fellow, perhaps desired to speak of something else beside the father, but somehow he was frightened and unconsciously inquired for him; then he became silent and waited for Kasya to speak to him first. She stood confused, twisting the corners of her apron.At last she spoke.

“John?”

“What is it, Kasya?”

“Does the turpentine works smoke to-day?” She also wished to speak of something else.

“Why should it not? The turpentine works never stop. I left lame Frank there; but dost thou wish to go there?”

“No, I go to gather plants.”

“I will go with thee, and on our return, if thou dost not chase me away, I will come to thy house.”

“Why should I chase thee away?”

“If thou dost like me thou wilt not chase me away, and if thou dost not, then thou wilt. Tell me, Kasya, dost thou like me?”

“Fate, my fate,” and Kasya covered her face with her hands. “What can I say to thee? I like thee, John, very much I like thee,” she whispered faintly.Then before he could reply she uncovered her blushing face and cried out, “Let us go and gather plants; let us hurry.”

And so went they, John and Kasya. The radiance of love surrounded them, but these simple children of nature dared not speak of it. They felt it, although they knew not what they felt; they were embarrassed but happy. Never before had the forest sung so wonderfully over their heads, never was the wind so sweet and caressing, never at any time had the noises of the forest, the rustling of the breeze in the trees, the voices of the birds, the echoes of the woods, seemed to merge into such an angelic choir, so sweet and grand, as at this moment, full of unconscious happiness.

Oh, holy power of love! how good an angel of light thou art, how rosy an aureole in the dusk, how bright a rainbow on the cloud of human tears!

Meanwhile, in the woods resounded echoes from pine to pine, the barking of the dog, Burek, who had escaped from the house and ran on the pathway after Kasya. He came panting heavily, and with great joy he jumped with his big paws on Kasya and John, and looked from one to the other with his wise and mild eyes, as if wishing to say:

“I see that you love one another; this is good.”

He wagged his tail and ran quickly ahead of them, then circled round to them, then stopped, barked once more with joy, and rushed into the woods, looking back from time to time on the boy and girl.

Kasya put her hand to her forehead, and looking upward upon the bright sun between the leaves she said:

“Just think, the sun is two hours beyond noontime and we have not yet gathered any plants. Go thou, John, to the left side and I shall go the right, and let us begin. We should hasten, for the dear Lord’s sake.”

They separated and went into the woods, but not far from one another and in a parallel direction, so that they could see each other. Among the ferns between the pine trees could be seen fluttering the vari-colored skirt and yellow kerchief of Kasya. The slender, supple maiden seemed to float amid the berry-laden bushes, mosses and ferns. You would say it was some fairy wila or rusalka of the woods; every moment she stooped and stood erect again, and so, further and further, passing the pine trees, she entered deeper into the forest as some spritely nymph.

Sometimes the thick growth of young hemlocks and cedars would conceal her from view, then John stopped, and putting his hand to his mouth would shout, “Halloo! Halloo!”

Kasya heard it; she stopped with a smile, and pretending that she did not see him, answered in a high, silvery voice:

“John!”

The echo answers:

“John! John!”

Meanwhile Burek had espied a squirrel up a tree, and, standing before it looking upward, barked. The squirrel sitting on a branch covered herself with her tail in a mocking manner, lifted her forepaws to her mouth and rubbed her nose, seemed to play with her forefingers, make grimaces, and laugh at the anger of Burek. Kasya, seeing it, laughed with a resounding, silvery tone, and so did John, and so the woods were filled with the sound of human voices, echoes, laughter and sunny joy.

Sometimes there was a deep silence, and then the woods seemed to speak; the breeze struck the fronds of the ferns, which emitted a sharp sound; the trunks of the pines swayed and creaked, and there was silence again.

Then could be heard the measured strokes of the woodpecker. It seemed as if some one kept knock—knocking at a door, and you could even expect that some mysterious voice would ask:

“Who is there?”

Again, the wood thrush was whistling with a sweet voice; the golden-crowned hammer plumed his feathers. In the thicket the pheasants clucked and the bright green humming birds flitted between the leaves; sometimes on the top of the pine tree a crow, hiding itself from the heat of the sun, lazily flapped its wings.

On this afternoon the weather was most clear, the sky was cloudless, and above the green canopy of the leaves there spread out the blue dome of the heavens—immense, limitless, transparently gray-tinted on the sides and deep blue above. In the sky stood the great golden sun; the space was flooded with light; the air was bright and serene, and far-off objects stood out distinctly, their forms clearly defined. From the height of heaven the eye of the great Creator embraced the whole earth; in the fields the grain bowed to Him with a golden wave, rustled the heavy heads of the wheat, and the delicate tasseled oats trembled like a cluster of tiny bells. In the air, filled with brightness here and there, floated the spring thread of the spider’s web, blue from the azure of the sky and golden from the sun, as if a veritable thread from the loom of the Mother of God.

In the vales between the fields of the waving grain stood dark-green meadows; here and there were crystal springs, around whose edges the grass was greener still; the whole meadows were sprinkled with yellow buttercups and dandelions which struck the eye with a profusion of golden brightness. In the wet places there thrived cypress trees, which had an air of coldness and moisture.

In the woods among the pine trees there were now both heat and silence. It seemed as if a dreamy stillness enveloped the whole world. Not a breath of wind stirred; the trees, grain, and grass were motionless. The leaves hung on the trees as if rocked to sleep; the birds had ceased their noises, and the moment of rest had come. But this rest seemed to come from an ineffable sweetness, and all nature seemed to meditate. Only the great expanse of heaven seemed to smile, and somewhere, high in the unknowable depths of its blue, the great and beneficent God was glad with the gladness of the fields, the woods, the meadows, and the waters.

Kasya and John were still busy in the woods collecting herbs, laughing gleefully and speaking to each other joyfully. Man is as artless as a bird; he will sing when he can, for this is his nature. John now began to sing a simple and touching song.

As Kasya and John sang in unison the last refrain of the song ended mournfully, and as if in accompaniment the echo repeated it in the dark depths of the woods; the pines gave resonance as the words ran between their trunks and died away in the far distance like a sigh, less distinct, light, ethereal; then silence.

Later Kasya sang a more cheerful song, beginning with the words:

“I shall become a ring of gold now.”

This is a good song. A willful young girl quarrels with her lover and enumerates the means she intends to use to escape from him. But it is useless. When she says that she will be a golden ring and will roll away on the road, he says that he will quickly see and recover her. When she wants to be a golden fish in the water he sings to her of the silken net; when she wants to be a wild fowl on the lake he appears before her as a hunter. At last the poor maiden, seeing she is unable to hide herself from him on the earth, sings:

“I shall become a star in heaven,
Light to earth by will be given.
My love to thee I shall not render,
Nor my sweet will to thee surrender.”

But the undaunted youth answers:

“Then shall I pray to the saint’s grace
That the star may fall from its heavenly place.
Thy love to me thou then wilt render,
And thy sweet will to me surrender.”

The maiden, seeing there is no refuge either in heaven or on earth for her, accepts the view of Providence and sings:

“I see, I see, fate’s decree doth bind me;
Where’er I hide, thou sure wilt find me.
My love to thee I must now render,
And my sweet will to thee surrender.”

John, turning to Kasya, said:

“Do you understand?”

“What, John?”

He began to sing:

“Thy love to me thou must now render,
And thy sweet will to me surrender.”

Kasya was troubled, and laughed loudly to cover her confusion; and wishing to speak, she said:“I have gathered a large lot of plants; it would be well to dip them in water, for in this heat they will wither.”

Verily the heat was great; the wind had entirely ceased. In the woods, though in the shade, the air vibrated with moist heat, the pines exuding a strong, resinous odor. The delicate, golden-tinted face of Kasya was touched with perspiration, and her blue eyes showed traces of weariness. She removed the kerchief from her head, and began to fan herself. John, taking the basket from her, said:

“Here, Kasya, stand two aspen trees, and between them a spring. Come, let us drink.”

Both went. After a short interval they noticed that the ground of the forest began to slope here. Among the trees, instead of bushes, ferns and dry mosses, there was a green, damp turf, then one aspen tree, then another, and after them whole rows. They entered into this dark, humid retreat, where the rays of the sun, passing through the leaves, took on their color and reflected on the human face a pale green light. John and Kasya descended lower and lower into the shadows and dampness; a chilliness breathed upon them, refreshing after the heat of the woods; and in a moment, between the rows of the aspen trees, they espied in the black turf a deep stream of water winding its way under and through canes and bushy thickets, and interspersed with the large, round leaves of the water-lilies, which we call “nenufars,” and by the peasants are called “white flowers.”

Beautiful was this spot, quiet, secluded, shady, even somewhat sombre and solemn. The transparent stream of water wound its way between the trees. The nenufars, touched by the light movement of the water, swayed gently backward and forward, leaning toward each other as if kissing. Above their broad leaves, lying like shields on the surface of the water, swarmed indigo-colored insects with wide, translucent, sibilant wings, so delicate and fragile that they are justly called water-sprites. Black butterflies, with white-edged, mournful wings, rested on the sharp, slender tops of the tamarack. On the dark turf blossomed blue forget-me-nots. On the edge of the stream grew some alder trees, and under the bushes peeped out heads of the lily-of-the-valley, bluebells and honeysuckles. The white heads of the biedrzenica hung over the waters; the silvery threads of the strojka spread out upon the current of the stream and weaved themselves into thin and long strands; besides—seclusion—a wild spot, forgotten by men, peaceful, peopled only with the world of birds, flowers and insects.In such places generally dwell nymphs, rusalki, and other bad or good forest sprites. Kasya, who was in advance, stood first on the banks of the stream and looked upon the water in which was reflected her graceful form. She verily appeared as one of those beautiful forest spirits as they are seen sometimes by the woodsmen or lumber men who float on their rafts down the rivers through the woods. She had no covering upon her head, and the wind gently played with her locks and ruffled her ray-like hair. Sunburned she was, blond-haired, and her eyes, as blue as turquoise, were as laughing as her lips. Besides, she was a divinely tall, slender, and fairy-like maiden. No one could swear, if she was suddenly startled, that she would not jump into the water—would not dissolve into mist—into rainbow rays—would not turn quickly into a water-lily or kalina tree, which, when robbed of its flowers, remonstrates with a voice so human, yet recalling the sigh of the forest:

“Don’t touch me.”

Kasya, bending over the water so that her tresses fell on her shoulders, turned toward John and said:

“How shall we drink?”

“As birds,” answered John, pointing to some silver pheasants on the opposite side of the stream.

John, who knew how to help himself better than the birds, plucked a large leaf from a tree, and, making a funnel out of it, filled it with water and gave it to Kasya.

They both drank, then Kasya gathered some forget-me-nots, and John with his knife made a flute from the willow bark, on which, when he had finished, he began to play the air which the shepherds play in the eventide on the meadows. The soft notes floated away with ineffable tenderness in this secluded spot. Shortly he removed the flute and listened intently as if to catch an echo returning from the aspen trees, and it seemed that the clear stream, the dark aspen trees, and the birds hidden in the canes listened to these notes with him.

All became silent, but shortly, as if in answer—as if a challenge—came the first faint note of the nightingale, followed by a stronger trill. The nightingale wanted to sing—it challenged the flute.

Now he began to sing. All nature was listening to this divine singer. The lilies lifted their heads above the water; the forget-me-nots pressed closer together; the canes ceased to rustle; no bird dared to peep except an unwise and absent-minded cuckoo, who with her silent wing alighted near by on a dry bough, lifted her head, widely opened her beak, and foolishly called aloud:

“Cuckoo! cuckoo!”

Afterward it seemed as if she was ashamed of her outbreak, and she quietly subsided.

Vainly Kasya, who stood on the edge of the stream with the forget-me-nots in her hand, turned to the side from whence came the voice of the cuckoo and queried:

“Cuckoo, blue-gray cuckoo, how long shall I live?”

The cuckoo answered not.

“Cuckoo, shall I be rich?”

The cuckoo was silent.

Then John: “Cuckoo, gray cuckoo, how soon will I wed?”

The cuckoo replied not.

“She cares not to answer us,” said John; “let us return to the forest.”

On returning they found the large stone by which they had placed the basket and bunches of herbs. Kasya, seating herself beside it, began to weave garlands, and John helped her. Burek lay near them, stretched his hairy forepaws, lolled out his tongue and breathed heavily from fatigue, looking carefully around to see if he could not spy some living thing to chase and enjoy his own noise. But everything in the woods was quiet. The sun was traveling toward the west, and through the leaves and the needles of the pines shot his rays, becoming more and more red, covering the ground of the woods in places with great golden circles. The air was dry; in the west were spreading great shafts of golden light, which flooded all like an ocean of molten gold and amber. The wondrous beauties of the peaceful, warm spring evening were glowing in the sky. In the woods the daily work was gradually ceasing. The noise of the woodpecker had stopped; black and bronzed ants returned in rows to their hills, which were red in the rays of the setting sun. Some carried in their mouths pine needles and some insects. Among the herbs here and there circled small forest bees, humming joyfully as they completed their last load of the sweet flower-dust. From the fissures in the bark of the trees came gloomy and blind millers; in the streams of the golden light circled swarms of midgets and gnats scarcely visible to the eye; mosquitoes began their mournful song. On the trees the birds were choosing their places for the night; a yellow bird was softly whistling; the crows flapped their wings, crowding all on one tree and quarreling about the best places. But these voices were more and more rare, and became fainter; gradually all ceased, and the silence was interrupted by the evening breeze playing among the trees. The poplar tree tried to lift her bluish-green leaves upward; the king-oak murmured softly; the leaves of the birch tree slightly moved—silence.

Now the sky became more red; in the east the horizon became dark blue, and all the voices of the woods merged into a chorus, solemn, deep and immense. Thus the forest sings its evening song of praise, and says its prayers before it sleeps; tree speaks to tree of the glory of God, and you would say that it spoke with a human voice.

Only very innocent souls understand this great and blessed speech. Only very innocent hearts hear and understand when the first chorus of the parent oaks begins its strain:

“Rejoice, O sister pines, and be glad. The Lord hath given a warm and peaceful day, and now above the earth He makes the starry night. Great is the Lord, and mighty, powerful and good is He, so let there be glory to Him upon the heights, upon the waters, upon the lands, and upon the air.”

And the pines pondered a moment upon the words of the oaks, and then they raised their voices together, saying:

“Now, O Lord, to thy great glory, we, as censers, offer to Thee the incense of our sweet-smelling balsam, strong, resinous and fragrant. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.’”

Then the birches said:

“Thy evening brightness illumines the heavens, O Lord! and in Thy splendors our small leaves golden are and burning. Now with our golden leaves we sing to Thee, O Lord, and our delicate twigs play as the strings of the harp, O good Father of ours!”

Again the sorrowing cypress said:

“Upon our sad foreheads, exhausted with the heat, softly falls the evening dew. Praise be to Thee, O Lord; brothers and sisters rejoice, because there falls the cooling dew.”

Amid this chorus of trees the aspen alone trembles and is afraid; for it gave the wood for the Cross of the Saviour of the world; at times it faintly groans:

“O Lord, have mercy upon me. Have mercy upon me, O Lord.”

Again, sometimes, when the oaks and pines cease for a moment, there rises from under their feet a faint, modest voice, low as the murmur of insects, silent as silence itself, which says:

“A small berry am I, O Lord, and hidden in the moss. But Thou wilt hear, discern and love me; though small, devout am I, and sing Thy glory.”

Thus every evening prays the forest, and these orchestral sounds rise at every sunset from earth to heaven—and float high, high, reaching where there is no creature, where there is nothing only the silvery dust and the milky way of the stars, and above the stars—God.

At this moment the sun hides his radiant head in the far-distant seas; the farmer turns upward his plowshares and hastens to his cottage. From the pastures return the bellowing herds; the sheep raise clouds of the golden dust. The twilight falls; in the village creek the well sweeps; later the windows shine, and from the distance comes the barking of the dogs.

The sun had not gone beyond the woods when Kasya had seated herself under the mossy stone to weave her garlands. Its rays were thrown upon her face, broken by the shadows of the leaves and twigs. The work did not proceed rapidly, for Kasya was tired from heat and running in the woods. Her sunburnt hands moved slowly at her work. The warm breeze kissed her temples and face, and the voices of the forest lulled her to sleep. Her large eyes became heavy and drowsy; her eyelashes began to close slowly; she leaned her head against the stone, opened her eyes once more as a child looking upon the divine beauty of the world; then the noise of the trees, the rows of the stumps, the ground full of pine needles, and the skies that could be seen between the branches all became indistinct, darkened, dissolved, disappeared—and she smiled and slept. Her head was hidden in a soft shade, but the covering of her breast shone all rosy and purple. Her soft breathing lifted her bosom gently; so wonderful and beautiful she looked in this quiet sleep in the evening rays that John looked upon her as if upon the image of a saint, glorious with gold, and colored as the rainbow.

Kasya’s hands were clinging yet to the unfinished garland of herbs. She slept with a sleep light and sweet, for she smiled through her dreams as a child who speaks with the angels. Perhaps she verily conversed with angels, for pure she was as a child, and had dedicated her whole day to the service of God by gathering and weaving the garlands for His temple.

John was sitting by her side, but he did not sleep. His simple breast could not contain the feelings that arose there; he felt as if his soul had got wings and was preparing to fly away to the realms of heaven. He knew not what was happening to him, and he only raised his eyes to the skies and was motionless; you would say that love had transfigured him.

Kasya slumbered on, and for a long time they both remained there. Meanwhile the dusk came. The remnants of the purple light fought with the darkness. The interior of the woods deepened—became dumb. From the canes of the lake near the glade with its cottage came the buzzing of a night beetle.

Suddenly on the other side of the lake from the church rang out the Angelus bell. Its tones floated on the wings of the evening breeze over the face of the quiet waters, clear, resonant, and distinct. It called the faithful to prayer, and also proclaimed: “Rest! Enough of work and the heat of the day,” spoke the bell. “Wrap yourself to sleep in the wing of God. Come, come ye weary to Him—in Him is joy! Here is peace! here gladness! here sleep! here sleep! here sleep!”

John took off his hat at the sound of the bell, Kasya shook the sleep from her eyes, and said:

“The bell rings.”

“For the Angel of the Lord.”

Both kneeled near by the mossy stone as if before an altar. Kasya began to pray with a low, soft voice:“The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary,”

“And she conceived by the Holy Ghost,” answered John.

“Behold the handmaiden of the Lord; may it be done to me according to Thy word.”

Thus kneeling, prayed these children of God. The silent summer lightning shone from the east to the west, and upon its light flew down from heaven a radiant host of winged angels, and hovered above their heads. Then they blended with the angels and were themselves as if angels, for upon earth there were no two souls more bright, more pure, more innocent.