id a coloured picture of a hussar
which had once adorned a pomade bottle and a sketch made by Woloda, and
take from it a fumigation pastille, which she would light and shake for
my benefit, saying:

"These, dear, are the pastilles which your grandfather (now in Heaven)
brought back from Otchakov after fighting against the Turks." Then she
would add with a sigh: "But this is nearly the last one."

The trunks which filled her room seemed to contain almost everything in
the world. Whenever anything was wanted, people said, "Oh, go and ask
Natalia Savishna for it," and, sure enough, it was seldom that she did
not produce the object required and say, "See what comes of taking care
of everything!" Her trunks contained thousands of things which nobody in
the house but herself would have thought of preserving.

Once I lost my temper with her. This was how it happened.

One day after luncheon I poured myself out a glass of kvass, and then
dropped the decanter, and so stained the tablecloth.

"Go and call Natalia, that she may come and see what her darling has
done," said Mamma.

Natalia arrived, and shook her head at me when she saw the damage I had
done; but Mamma whispered something in her car, threw a look at myself,
and then left the room.

I was just skipping away, in the sprightliest mood possible, when
Natalia darted out upon me from behind the door with the tablecloth in
her hand, and, catching hold of me, rubbed my face hard with the stained
part of it, repeating, "Don't thou go and spoil tablecloths any more!"

I struggled hard, and roared with temper.

"What?" I said to myself as I fled to the drawing-room in a mist of
tears, "To think that Natalia Savishna-just plain Natalia-should say
'THOU' to me and rub my face with a wet tablecloth as though I were a
mere servant-boy! It is abominable!"

Seeing my fury, Natalia departed, while I continued to strut about and
plan how to punish the bold woman for her offence. Yet not more than a
few moments had passed when Natalia returned and, stealing to my side,
began to comfort me,

"Hush, then, my love. Do not cry. Forgive me my rudeness. It was wrong
of me. You WILL pardon me, my darling, will you not? There, there,
that's a dear," and she took from her handkerchief a cornet of pink
paper containing two little cakes and a grape, and offered it me with
a trembling hand. I could not look the kind old woman in the face, but,
turning aside, took the paper, while my t