She drooped her head low and listened to the song, motionless, as though bewitched by it.

From the fire came the peasant.

He stepped carefully over the boards, on tiptoe; his hands were clasped behind his back, and his broad, bearded face was now transformed into a smile of astonishment and of a naive delight.
"Eh! but feel, my kind, brave man!" entreated Vassa, plaintively, nodding her head.

And her sister, her chest bent forward, her hand still higher, wound up the song in powerful triumphant notes: "The yearning and the pangs of love!" When she finished singing, she looked haughtily about her, and seating herself by Foma's side, clasped his neck with a firm and powerful hand.
"Well, was it a nice song ?" "It's capital!" said Foma with a sigh, as he smiled at her.
The song filled his heart with thirst for tenderness and, still full of charming sounds, it quivered, but at the touch of her arm he felt awkward and ashamed before the other people.
"Bravo-o! Bravo, Aleksandra Sarelyevna!" shouted Ookhtishchev, and the others were clapping their hands.

But she paid no attention to them, and embracing Foma authoritatively, said: "Well, make me a present of something for the song." "Very well, I will," Foma assented.
"What ?" "You tell me." "I'll tell you when we come to town.