Returning to the ward where eight children lay in their beds, Maslova began to remake one of the beds, by order of the Sister, and, leaning over too far with the sheet, slipped and nearly fell.  The convalescing boy, wound in bandages to his neck, began to laugh.  Maslova could restrain herself no longer, and seating herself on the bedstead she burst into loud laughter, infecting several children, who also began to laugh.  The Sister angrily shouted: 

“What are you roaring about?  Think you this is like the place you came from?  Go fetch the rations.”

Maslova stopped laughing, and taking a dish went on her errand, but exchanging looks with the bandaged boy, who giggled again.

Several times during the day, when Maslova remained alone, she drew out a corner of the picture and looked at it with admiration, but in the evening, when she and another nurse retired for the night, she removed the picture from the envelope and immovably looked with admiration at the faces; her own, his and the aunt’s, their dresses, the stairs of the balcony, the bushes in the background, her eyes feasting especially on herself, her young, beautiful face with the hair hanging over her forehead.  She was so absorbed that she failed to notice that the other nurse had entered.

“What is that?  Did he give it you?” asked the stout, good-natured nurse, leaning over the photograph.

“Is it possible that that is you?”

“Who else?” Maslova said, smiling and looking into her companion’s face.

“And who is that?  He himself?  And that is his mother?”

“His aunt.  Couldn’t you recognize me?” asked Maslova.

“Why, no.  I could never recognize you.  The face is entirely different.  That must have been taken about ten years ago.”

“Not years, but a lifetime,” said Maslova, and suddenly her face became sullen and a wrinkle formed between her eyebrows.

“Yours was an easy life, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, easy,” Maslova repeated, closing her eyes and shaking her head.  “Worse than penal servitude.”

“Why so?”

“Because.  From eight in the evening to four in the morning—­every day the same.”

“Then why don’t they get out?”

“They like to, but cannot.  But what is the use of talking!” cried Maslova, and she sprang to her feet, threw the photograph into the drawer of the table, and suppressing her angry tears, ran into the corridor, slamming the door.  Looking on the photograph she imagined herself as she had been at the time the photograph was made, and dreamed how happy she had been and might still be with him.  The words of her companion reminded her what she was now—­reminded her of all the horror of that life which she then felt but confusedly, and would not allow herself to admit.  Only now she vividly recalled all those terrible nights, particularly one Shrovetide night.  She recalled how she, in a low-cut, wine-bespattered, red silk dress, with a red