was something hoarse and broken, like a hiccup,—a sort of gurgle. This voice drove away my pity. However, I went on.
"You have relatives living?"
"Yes; my father, my mother, two brothers, four sisters. I am the oldest."
"And your father? What does he do?"
"He is a blacksmith."
"You are poor."
"My father has three fields, three houses, three threshing-machines" . . .
"Then he is rich?"
"Surely he is rich. He cultivates his fields and rents his houses, and goes about the country with his threshing-machines and threshes the peasants' wheat. And my brother shoes the horses."
"And your sisters?"
"They have beautiful lace caps and embroidered gowns."
"And you?"
"I have nothing."
I drew further away, that I might not get the mortal odor of this voice.
"Why are you a domestic?" I resumed.
"Because" . . .
"Why did you leave home?"
"Because" . . .
"You were not happy?
