about her; the wind was whispering in the leaves of the trees, and swinging now and then a long branch of a raspberry bush over Zina�da’s head. There was a sound of the cooing of doves, and the bees hummed, flying low over the scanty grass, Overhead the sun was radiantly blue – while I was so sorrowful� .

‘Read me some poetry,’ said Zina�da in an undertone, and she propped herself on her elbow; ‘I like your reading poetry. You read it in sing-song, but that’s no matter, that comes of being young. Read me “On the Hills of Georgia.” Only sit down first.’

I sat down and read ‘On the Hills of Georgia.’

‘“That the heart cannot choose but love,”’ repeated Zina�da. ‘That’s