Some one began to sing. The melody was familiar to Ivan—one of those sad Slav airs in which the singer seems on the brink of tears; and the voice was sweet and tuneful as a bell, full, too, of feeling.
"Say when I smoothed thy hair,
Showed I not tender care?
Say when I dressed my child,
Was I not fond and mild?"
Ivan's face clouded. "Why do they sing that air? Why should it be on the lips of any one? Why not let it fall into oblivion?"
"The girl is coming," said old Paul. "I hear her singing; she is now coming down the hill with her wheelbarrow."
The next moment the girl appeared upon the summit of the coal-hill. With a run she had shoved her wheelbarrow forward and emptied the contents with extraordinary dexterity; the big lumps of coal rolled down the hill. She was a young, well-developed girl in a blue jacket and a short petticoat; but this red petticoat was not tucked up—it fell over her ankles, and only showed her feet. The colored handkerchief on her head had fallen backward, and the rich plaits wound round her small head could be seen. Her face was smudged with coal-dust and was beaming with good-humor—earthly dirt, supernatural glory. But what the coal-dust could not conceal were the two large black eyes shining like two brilliants—the darkness illumined by dazzling stars.
The girl stood immovable on the summit of the coal-hill, then looked down with some surprise on the crowd gathered in and around the station-house.
The next moment Ivan was beside her. In his joy he had made one bound from the station-house across the rails and had rushed up the coal-hill.
"Eveline!" he cried, clasping the girl's hand in his.
She shook her head, smiling at him. "No, sir," she said, "Evila."
"You here! You have come back here!"