nd the fingers grew
double, the samovar heaved and the smell of rotten apples seemed
even more acrid and disgusting.

"Ah, money, money!" sighed Father Christopher, smiling. "You bring
trouble! Now I expect my Mihailo is asleep and dreaming that I am
going to bring him a heap of money like this."

"Your Mihailo Timofevitch is a man who doesn't understand business,"
said Kuzmitchov in an undertone; "he undertakes what isn't his work,
but you understand and can judge. You had better hand over your
wool to me, as I have said already, and I would give you half a
rouble above my own price--yes, I would, simply out of regard for
you. . . ."

"No, Ivan Ivanitch." Father Christopher sighed. "I thank you for
your kindness. . . . Of course, if it were for me to decide, I
shouldn't think twice about it; but as it is, the wool is not mine,
as you know. . . ."

Moisey Moisevitch came in on tiptoe. Trying from delicacy not to
look at the heaps of money, he stole up to Yegorushka and pulled
at his shirt from behind.

"Come along, little gentleman," he said in an undertone, "come and
see the little bear I can show you! Such a queer, cross little bear.
Oo-oo!"

The sleepy boy got up and listlessly dragged himself after Moisey
Moisevitch to see the bear. He went into a little room, where,
before he saw anything, he felt he could not breathe from the smell
of something sour and decaying, which was much stronger here than
in the big room and probably spread from this room all over the
house. One part of the room was occupied by a big bed, covered with
a greasy quilt and another by a chest of drawers and heaps of rags
of all kinds from a woman's stiff petticoat to children's little
breeches and braces. A tallow candle stood on the chest of drawers.

Instead of the promised bear, Yegorushka saw a big fat Jewess with
her hair hanging loose, in a red flannel skirt with black sprigs
on it; she turned with difficulty in the narrow space between the
bed and the chest of drawers and uttered drawn-out moaning as though
she had toothache. On seeing Yegorushka, she made a doleful,
woe-begone face, heaved a long drawn-out sigh, and before he had
time to look round, put to his lips a slice of bread smeared with
honey.

"Eat it, dearie, eat it!" she said. "You are here without your
mamma, and no one to look after you. Eat it up."

Yegorushka did eat it, though after the goodies and poppy-cakes he
had every day at home, he did not think ver