When she returned to the ward, in which there stood eight small beds, Maslova began, in obedience to the nurse’s order, to arrange one of the beds; and, bending over too far with the sheet, she slipped and nearly fell down.

A little convalescent boy with a bandaged neck, who was looking at her, laughed.  Maslova could no longer contain herself and burst into loud laughter, and such contagious laughter that several of the children also burst out laughing, and one of the sisters rebuked her angrily.

“What are you giggling at?  Do you think you are where you used to be?  Go and fetch the food.”  Maslova obeyed and went where she was sent; but, catching the eye of the bandaged boy who was not allowed to laugh, she again burst out laughing.

Whenever she was alone Maslova again and again pulled the photograph partly out of the envelope and looked at it admiringly; but only in the evening when she was off duty and alone in the bedroom which she shared with a nurse, did she take it quite out of the envelope and gaze long at the faded yellow photograph, caressing with, her eyes every detail of faces and clothing, the steps of the veranda, and the bushes which served as a background to his and hers and his aunts’ faces, and could not cease from admiring especially herself—­her pretty young face with the curly hair round the forehead.  She was so absorbed that she did not hear her fellow-nurse come into the room.

“What is it that he’s given you?” said the good-natured, fat nurse, stooping over the photograph.

“Who’s this?  You?”

“Who else?” said Maslova, looking into her companion’s face with a smile.

“And who’s this?”

“Himself.”

“And is this his mother?”

“No, his aunt.  Would you not have known me?”

“Never.  The whole face is altered.  Why, it must be 10 years since then.”

“Not years, but a lifetime,” said Maslova.  And suddenly her animation went, her face grew gloomy, and a deep line appeared between her brows.

“Why so?  Your way of life must have been an easy one.”

“Easy, indeed,” Maslova reiterated, closing her eyes and shaking her head.  “It is hell.”

“Why, what makes it so?”

“What makes it so!  From eight till four in the morning, and every night the same!”

“Then why don’t they give it up?”

“They can’t give it up if they want to.  But what’s the use of talking?” Maslova said, jumping up and throwing the photograph into the drawer of the table.  And with difficulty repressing angry tears, she ran out into the passage and slammed the door.

While looking at the group she imagined herself such as she was there and dreamt of her happiness then and of the possibility of happiness with him now.  But her companion’s words reminded her of what she was now and what she had been, and brought back all the horrors of that life, which she had felt but dimly, and not allowed herself to realise.