tch shouted, too, waving off the red dog
with his stick. "Tell me, please, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov
live here?"

"Yes! But what do you want with her?"

"Perhaps you are Nastasya Petrovna?"

"Well, yes, I am!"

"Very pleased to see you. . . . You see, your old friend Olga
Ivanovna Knyasev sends her love to you. This is her little son. And
I, perhaps you remember, am her brother Ivan Ivanitch. . . . You
are one of us from N. . . . You were born among us and married
there. . . ."

A silence followed. The stout woman stared blankly at Ivan Ivanitch,
as though not believing or not understanding him, then she flushed
all over, and flung up her hands; the oats were scattered out of
her apron and tears spurted from her eyes.

"Olga Ivanovna!" she screamed, breathless with excitement. "My own
darling! Ah, holy saints, why am I standing here like a fool? My
pretty little angel. . . ."

She embraced Yegorushka, wetted his face with her tears, and broke
down completely.

"Heavens!" she said, wringing her hands, "Olga's little boy! How
delightful! He is his mother all over! The image of his mother! But
why are you standing in the yard? Come indoors."

Crying, gasping for breath and talking as she went, she hurried
towards the house. Her visitors trudged after her.

"The room has not been done yet," she said, ushering the visitors
into a stuffy little drawing-room adorned with many ikons and pots
of flowers. "Oh, Mother of God! Vassilisa, go and open the shutters
anyway! My little angel! My little beauty! I did not know that
Olitchka had a boy like that!"

When she had calmed down and got over her first surprise Ivan
Ivanitch asked to speak to her alone. Yegorushka went into another
room; there was a sewing-machine; in the window was a cage with a
starling in it, and there were as many ikons and flowers as in the
drawing-room. Near the machine stood a little girl with a sunburnt
face and chubby cheeks like Tit's, and a clean cotton dress. She
stared at Yegorushka without blinking, and apparently felt very
awkward. Yegorushka looked at her and after a pause asked:

"What's your name?"

The little girl moved her lips, looked as if she were going to cry,
and answered softly:

"Atka. . . ."

This meant Katka.

"He will live with you," Ivan Ivanitch was whispering in the
drawing-room, "if you will be so kind, and we will pay ten roubles
a month for his keep. He is not a spoilt boy; he is quiet. . . ."

"I