'What is it, brother?' I asked him; 'why aren't you cheerful? Have you some trouble?'
The lad did not answer me for a minute. 'Yes, sir, I have,' he said at last. 'And such a trouble, there could not be a worse. My wife is dead.'
'You loved her . . . your wife?'
The lad did not turn to me; he only bent his head a little.
'I loved her, sir. It's eight months since then . . . but I can't forget it. My heart is gnawing at me . . . so it is ! And why had she to die ? A young thing! strong! . . . In one day cholera snatched her away.'
'And was she good to you?'
'Ah, sir!' the poor fellow sighed heavily, 'and how happy we were together! She died without me! The first I heard here, they'd buried her already, you know; I hurried off at once to the village, home—I got there—it was past midnight. I went into my hut, stood still in the middle of the room, and softly I whispered, "Masha! eh, Masha!" Nothing but the cricket chirping. I fell a-crying then, sat on the hut floor, and beat on the earth with my fists! "Greedy earth!" says I . . . "You have swallowed her up . . . swallow me too!—Ah, Masha!"
'Masha!' he added suddenly in a sinking
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