"We thought that you would come back and live with us," said Fedulych.
"No, what's the use? Anyway—you live on!"
Tears flowed from her eyes again and the others cried, too. It seemed peculiar to her; there was nothing to regret in leaving the place, nothing sentimental to remember it by, and yet she was crying. And those people, too. She had not said anything out of the ordinary to them—just the usual questions and answers—and yet their hearts were heavy, they were sorry to see her go. She was seated in the cart, wrapped up and well covered. Everybody heaved a sigh. "Good luck!" came running after her when the cart started. Passing the churchyard she stopped again and went to the grave alone without the ecclesiastics, following the path that had been cleared. It was quite dark, and lights began to appear in the houses of the church officials. She stood there with one hand holding on to the cross rising from the grave. She did not cry, but only swayed slightly, thinking of nothing in particular, unable to formulate any definite thought. But she was unhappy, in every way unhappy. Not because of grandmother, but on her own account. So she stood for a quarter of an hour, and suddenly before her eyes rose the image of Lubinka, who perhaps at that very moment was singing merrily in a rollicking company, somewhere in Kremenchug:
"Ah, ah, que j'aime, que j'aime!
Que j'aime, les mili-mili-mili-taires!"
She almost broke down. She ran to her cart, seated herself, and ordered the coachman to drive to Golovliovo as fast as possible.
CHAPTER III
When Anninka returned to her uncle's, she was dull and silent, though she did feel a bit hungry (in the hurry, uncle had not given her some chicken to take along) and was very glad the table was already set for tea. Of course, Porfiry Vladimirych was not slow to open a conversation.
"Well, were you there?"
"Yes, I was."