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"Look sharp, my girl!" the old man shouted after her,

good-humoredly, and he went up to Levin. "Well, sir, are you

going to Nikolay Ivanovitch Sviazhsky? His honor comes to us

too," he began, chatting, leaning his elbows on the railing of

the steps. In the middle of the old man's account of his

acquaintance with Sviazhsky, the gates creaked again, and

laborers came into the yard from the fields, with wooden ploughs

and harrows. The horses harnessed to the ploughs and harrows were

sleek and fat. The laborers were obviously of the household: two

were young men in cotton shirts and caps, the two others were

hired laborers in homespun shirts, one an old man, the other a

young fellow. Moving off from the steps, the old man went up to

the horses and began unharnessing them.

"What have they been ploughing?" asked Levin.

"Ploughing up the potatoes. We rent a bit of land too. Fedot,

don't let out the gelding, but take it to the trough, and we'll

put the other in harness."