I cursed the church in my heart every time I had to pass it; and I was afraid--afraid.
On market days, when the peasants came to church, and the bells kept ringing by the hour, my heart was heavy in me, and I could find no rest.

Even in my father's house I did not feel safe.

The church bell boomed over the roofs of the houses, calling, calling, calling.

I closed my eyes, and saw the people passing into the church: peasant women with bright embroidered aprons and glass beads; barefoot little girls with colored kerchiefs on their heads; boys with caps pulled too far down over their flaxen hair; rough men with plaited bast sandals, and a rope around the waist,--crowds of them, moving slowly up the steps, crossing themselves again and again, till they were swallowed by the black doorway, and only the beggars were left squatting on the steps.

_Boom, boom!_ What are the people doing in the dark, with the waxen images and the horrid crucifixes?
_Boom, boom, boom!_ They are ringing the bell for me.