"You see. It's in here, in this little hollow, that it's lodged. The devil take it!"

"Yes. It's bitten deep."

Ivan drew her to him and whispered in her ear: "It doesn't matter. You'll make me a son and give him the right breast. The milk's the same…"

The izba was completed in the fall. A little before the first snow they harvested the potatoes, planted late, as well as some vegetables.

The snow fell, the village went to sleep. But from time to time they could hear the tinkling of a bucket in the well and the old dog coughing in the yard that belonged to the head of the kolkhoz.

In the morning Ivan went to the soviet, then to the smithy. Together with the other men he was repairing tools for the farmwork in spring. On his return he would sit down at the table with Tanya. He blew on a red-hot cracked potato, stole quick glances at his wife, unable to conceal a smile. Everything afforded him a secret joy. It was clean and tranquil in their new izba. They could hear the regular sound of the clock. Outside the windows etched with ridges of frost a mauve sun was setting. And close beside him sat his wife who was expecting a child, radiant, a trifle solemn, and more attractive than ever in her sweet and serene seriousness.

After the meal Ivan liked to stroll slowly through the rooms of the izba, listening to the creak of the floorboards. He patted the stove's white walls and would often remark: "You know, Tanyushka, we'll have a whole brood of children. And when we grow old we'll keep warm lying on this stove. It's true, just look at it. It's no mere stove, it's a real ship. The shelf on top is even better than the old one."

The winter grew severe. The wells froze right down to the bottom. The birds, stricken in midflight, fell to the ground as little lifeless balls. One day Tanya gathered up one of these birds just outside the house and put it on a bench near the stove. "It may recover in the warmth," she thought. But the little bird did not stir. The hoarfrost on its feathers simply glistened in fine droplets.