Varka jumps up, and looking round grasps what is the matter:  there is no high road, no Pelageya, no people meeting them, there is only her mistress, who has come to feed the baby, and is standing in the middle of the room.  While the stout, broad-shouldered woman nurses the child and soothes it, Varka stands looking at her and waiting till she has done.  And outside the windows the air is already turning blue, the shadows and the green patch on the ceiling are visibly growing pale, it will soon be morning.

“Take him,” says her mistress, buttoning up her chemise over her bosom; “he is crying.  He must be bewitched.”

Varka takes the baby, puts him in the cradle and begins rocking it again.  The green patch and the shadows gradually disappear, and now there is nothing to force itself on her eyes and cloud her brain.  But she is as sleepy as before, fearfully sleepy!  Varka lays her head on the edge of the cradle, and rocks her whole body to overcome her sleepiness, but yet her eyes are glued together, and her head is heavy.

“Varka, heat the stove!” she hears the master’s voice through the door.

So it is time to get up and set to work.  Varka leaves the cradle, and runs to the shed for firewood.  She is glad.  When one moves and runs about, one is not so sleepy as when one is sitting down.  She brings the wood, heats the stove, and feels that her wooden face is getting supple again, and that her thoughts are growing clearer.

“Varka, set the samovar!” shouts her mistress.

Varka splits a piece of wood, but has scarcely time to light the splinters and put them in the samovar, when she hears a fresh order: 

“Varka, clean the master’s goloshes!”

She sits down on the floor, cleans the goloshes, and thinks how nice it would be to put her head into a big deep golosh, and have a little nap in it. . . .  And all at once the golosh grows, swells, fills up the whole room.  Varka drops the brush, but at once shakes her head, opens her eyes wide, and tries to look at things so that they may not grow big and move before her eyes.

“Varka, wash the steps outside; I am ashamed for the customers to see them!”

Varka washes the steps, sweeps and dusts the rooms, then heats another stove and runs to the shop.  There is a great deal of work:  she hasn’t one minute free.

But nothing is so hard as standing in the same place at the kitchen table peeling potatoes.  Her head droops over the table, the potatoes dance before her eyes, the knife tumbles out of her hand while her fat, angry mistress is moving about near her with her sleeves tucked up, talking so loud that it makes a ringing in Varka’s ears.  It is agonising, too, to wait at dinner, to wash, to sew, there are minutes when she longs to flop on to the floor regardless of everything, and to sleep.

The day passes.  Seeing the windows getting dark, Varka presses her temples that feel as though they were made of wood, and smiles, though she does not know why.  The dusk of evening caresses her eyes that will hardly keep open, and promises her sound sleep soon.  In the evening visitors come.