“Oh!” she answered indifferently, “I am well, of course. I always am. I have the strength of a horse. Of course I have been troubled about these poor people. It has been terrible. They are worse than children. I cannot quite understand why God afflicts them so. They have never done any harm. They are not like the Jews. It seems unjust. I have been very busy, in my small way. My mother, you know, does not take much interest in things that are not clean.”
“Madame the Countess reads French novels and the fictional productions of some modern English ladies,” suggested Steinmetz quietly.
“Yes; but she objects to honest dirt,” said Catrina coldly. “May I go in?”
Steinmetz did not move.
“I think not. This Moscow man is eccentric. He likes to do good sub rosa. He prefers to be alone.”
Catrina tried to look into the cottage; but Karl Steinmetz, as we know, was fat, and filled up the whole door-way.
“I should like to thank him for coming to us, or, at least, to offer him hospitality. I suppose one cannot pay him.”
“No; one cannot pay him,” answered Steinmetz gravely.
There was a little pause. From the interior of the cottage came the murmured gratitude of the peasants, broken at times by a wail of agony—the wail of a man. It is not a pleasant sound to hear. Catrina heard it, and it twisted her plain, strong face in a sudden spasm of sympathy.
Again she made an impatient little movement.