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Crossing the meadow, Konstantin Levin came out onto the road, and

met an old man with a swollen eye, carrying a skep on his

shoulder.

"What? taken a stray swarm, Fomitch?" he asked.

"No, indeed, Konstantin Dmitrich! All we can do to keep our own!

This is the second swarm that has flown away.... Luckily the lads

caught them. They were ploughing your field. They unyoked the

horses and galloped after them."

"Well, what do you say, Fomitch-start mowing or wait a bit?"

"Eh, well. Our way's to wait till St. Peter's Day. But you always

mow sooner. Well, to be sure, please God, the hay's good.

There'll be plenty for the beasts."

"What do you think about the weather?"

"That's in God's hands. Maybe it will be fine."

Levin went up to his brother.