of the grass. Once more a tall hat and a girl's white blouse gleamed in the darkness and some one gave a smack that resounded through the bushes. Ugh, out upon you! But this time the miller did not stop to scold the shameless youngster; he was afraid he might get the very same answer he had had the year before. So our Philip went his way quietly toward the widow's cottage.
There stood the little khata shimmering under the moon; the tiny window was winking, and the tall poplar seemed to be bathing in the moonlight. The miller stopped at the stile, scratched his head under his hat, and again threw his leg across the hedge.
"Knock—knock!"
"Okh, there is sure to be a fuss as there was last time, only worse," thought the miller. "That infernal Kharko with his infernal talk told me just what to say, but now, when I remember what he told me, it doesn't somehow seem right. It doesn't sound common sense. But what will be, will be!" and he knocked again.
A pale face and a pair of black eyes gleamed for an instant at the window.
"Mother, mother mine!" whispered Galya. "Here's that wicked miller again standing at the window and tapping on the pane."
"Ah, she doesn't lean out to put her arms around me and kiss me this time, even by mistake," thought the miller sadly.
