“Where’s your grandfather?” asked Mitri.  “He’s in the barn.”  Mitri went to the barn and set to work at once.  The old man of eighty knew of Mitri’s trouble.  After greeting him, he gave him his place to feed the machine.

Mitri took off his ragged coat, laid it out of the way near the fence, and then began to work vigorously, raking the corn together and throwing it into the machine.  The work went on without interruption until the dinner-hour.  The cocks had crowed two or three times, but no one paid any attention to them; not because the workers did not believe them, but because they were scarcely heard for the noise of the work and the talk about it.  At last the whistle of the squire’s steam thrasher sounded three miles away, and then the owner came into the barn.  He was a straight old man of eighty.  “It’s time to stop,” he said; “it’s dinner-time.”  Those at work seemed to redouble their efforts.  In a moment the straw was cleared away; the grain that had been thrashed was separated from the chaff and brought in, and then the workers went into the hut.

The hut was smoke-begrimed, as its stove had no chimney, but it had been tidied up, and benches stood round the table, making room for all those who had been working, of whom there were nine, not counting the owners.  Bread, soup, boiled potatoes, and kvass were placed on the table.

An old one-armed beggar, with a bag slung over his shoulder, came in with a crutch during the meal.

“Peace be to this house.  A good appetite to you.  For Christ’s sake give me something.”

“God will give it to you,” said the mistress, already an old woman, and the daughter-in-law of the master.  “Don’t be angry with us.”  An old man, who was still standing near the door, said, “Give him some bread, Martha.  How can you?”

“I am only wondering whether we shall have enough.”  “Oh, it is wrong, Martha.  God tells us to help the poor.  Cut him a slice.”

Martha obeyed.  The beggar went away.  The man in charge of the thrashing-machine got up, said grace, thanked his hosts, and went away to rest.

Mitri did not lie down, but ran to the shop to buy some tobacco.  He was longing for a smoke.  While he smoked he chatted to a man from Demensk, asking the price of cattle, as he saw that he would not be able to manage without selling a cow.  When he returned to the others, they were already back at work again; and so it went on till the evening.

Among these downtrodden, duped, and defrauded men, who are becoming demoralised by overwork, and being gradually done to death by underfeeding, there are men living who consider themselves Christians; and others so enlightened that they feel no further need for Christianity or for any religion, so superior do they appear in their own esteem.  And yet their hideous, lazy lives are supported by the degrading, excessive labour of these slaves, not to mention the labour of millions of other slaves, toiling in factories to produce samovars, silver, carriages, machines, and the like for their use.  They live among these horrors, seeing them and yet not seeing them, although often kind at heart—­old men and women, young men and maidens, mothers and children—­poor children who are being vitiated and trained into moral blindness.