And he glanced up again, this time
in eager interest.
Across the lawn from the orchard came trotting a child; carrying
a basket of peaches toward the kitchen. The youngster wore but a
single garment, a shapeless calico dress that fell scarcely to
her knees. She was Sonya, the seven-year-old daughter of one of
the Place's extra workmen, a Slav named Ruloff who lived in the
mile-distant village, across the lake.
Ruloff, following the custom of his peasant ancestors, put his
whole family to work, from the time its members were old enough
to toddle. And he urged them against the vice of laziness by
means of an ever-ready fist, or a still readier toe or a harness
strap--whichever of the trio of energy producers chanced to be
handiest. In coming over to the Place, for a month's labor,
during the harvest season, he brought along every day his
youngest and most fragile offspring, Sonya. Under her father's
directions and under his more drastic modes of encouragement, the
little girl was of much help to him in his doily toil.
Twice, the Master had caught him punishing her for undue slowness
in carrying out some duty too heavy for her frail strength.
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