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Mashkin Upland was mown, the last row finished, the peasants had

put on their coats and were gaily trudging home. Levin got on his

horse and, parting regretfully from the peasants, rode homewards.

On the hillside he looked back; he could not see them in the mist

that had risen from the valley; he could only hear rough,

good-humored voices, laughter, and the sound of clanking scythes.

Sergey Ivanovitch had long ago finished dinner, and was drinking

iced lemon and water in his own room, looking through the reviews

and papers which he had only just received by post, when Levin

rushed into the room, talking merrily, with his wet and matted

hair sticking to his forehead, and his back and chest grimed and

moist.

"We mowed the whole meadow! Oh, it is nice, delicious! And how

have you been getting on?" said Levin, completely forgetting the

disagreeable conversation of the previous day.