more cheerful and better-looking, and his eyes changed:
they became merry, quick and brilliant. But he always tried to
moderate his joy and not to give it expression: he was afraid of
appearing weak. The first evening after my uncle's return they two,
father and son, shut themselves! up in a separate room and talked
together in a low voice for a long time. The next morning I noticed
that my uncle looked at David with great confidence and affection: he
appeared very well pleased with him. David carried; him to Latkin's
funeral services at the church. I also went: my father made no
objection, but he remained at home. Raissa's calm surprised me: she
had grown pale and thin, but she shed no tears, and her words and
actions were very simple. In everything she did I noticed, strangely
enough, a certain majesty--the majesty of grief, which forgets itself.
At the entrance of the church Uncle Jegor was introduced to her. It
was evident from his manner that David had spoken to him of her. She
pleased him as much as did his son. I could see that in David's face
when I next looked at it. I remember how it glowed when his father
said of her in his presence, "She's an intelligent girl: she will be
a good housewife." At Latkin's house they told me that the old man
had gone quietly, like a burned-out taper, and that so long as he had
strength and consciousness he had stroked his daughter's hair,
had said something unintelligible, but not sad, and had smiled
continually. At the burial my father went to the church and to the
graveyard.

Even Trankwillitatin sang in the choir. At the grave' Raissa burst
suddenly into sobs and threw herself, face downward, on the ground,
but she rose immediately. Her little sister, the deaf mute, looked at
everything with great, bright, somewhat dull eyes: from time to time
she drew near Raissa, but she did not seem at all afraid. The second
day after the funeral, Uncle Jegor, who, apparently, had not come back
from Siberia empty-handed (he had paid all the funeral expenses and
given David's preserver a generous reward)--who had said nothing of
his life there nor of his plans for the future--Uncle Jegor, I say,
said to my father that he had determined not to stay in Riasan, but
to go with his son to Moscow. My father politely expressed his regret,
and even tried, though very gently, to alter my uncle's decision, but
in the depths of his soul I fancy he was very glad. The presence
of his brother--with whom