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On finishing yet another row he would have gone back to the top

of the meadow again to begin the next, but Tit stopped, and going

up to the old man said something in a low voice to him. They both

looked at the sun. "What are they talking about, and why doesn't

he go back?" thought Levin, not guessing that the peasants had

been mowing no less than four hours without stopping, and it was

time for their lunch.

"Lunch, sir," said the old man.

"Is it really time? That's right; lunch, then."

Levin gave his scythe to Tit, and together with the peasants, who

were crossing the long stretch of mown grass, slightly sprinkled

with rain, to get their bread from the heap of coats, he went

towards his house. Only then he suddenly awoke to the fact that

he had been wrong about the weather and the rain was drenching

his hay.

"The hay will be spoiled," he said.

"Not a bit of it, sir; mow in the rain, and you'll rake in fine

weather!" said the old man.