, sank into the feather bed, rolled
over to the wall, and began snuggling up the bedclothes as she settled
down, raising her knees to her chin, kicking out and laughing almost
inaudibly, now covering herself up head and all, and now peeping at her
mother. The countess finished her prayers and came to the bed with a
stern face, but seeing, that Natasha's head was covered, she smiled in
her kind, weak way.

"Now then, now then!" said she.

"Mamma, can we have a talk? Yes?" said Natasha. "Now, just one on your
throat and another... that'll do!" And seizing her mother round the
neck, she kissed her on the throat. In her behavior to her mother
Natasha seemed rough, but she was so sensitive and tactful that however
she clasped her mother she always managed to do it without hurting her
or making her feel uncomfortable or displeased.

"Well, what is it tonight?" said the mother, having arranged her pillows
and waited until Natasha, after turning over a couple of times, had
settled down beside her under the quilt, spread out her arms, and
assumed a serious expression.

These visits of Natasha's at night before the count returned from his
club were one of the greatest pleasures of both mother, and daughter.

"What is it tonight?--But I have to tell you..."

Natasha put her hand on her mother's mouth.

"About Boris... I know," she said seriously; "that's what I have come
about. Don't say it--I know. No, do tell me!" and she removed her hand.
"Tell me, Mamma! He's nice?"

"Natasha, you are sixteen. At your age I was married. You say Boris is
nice. He is very nice, and I love him like a son. But what then?...
What are you thinking about? You have quite turned his head, I can see
that...."

As she said this the countess looked round at her daughter. Natasha
was lying looking steadily straight before her at one of the mahogany
sphinxes carved on the corners of the bedstead, so that the countess
only saw her daughter's face in profile. That face struck her by its
peculiarly serious and concentrated expression.

Natasha was listening and considering.

"Well, what then?" said she.

"You have quite turned his head, and why? What do you want of him? You
know you can't marry him."

"Why not?" said Natasha, without changing her position.

"Because he is young, because he is poor, because he is a relation...
and because you yourself don't love him."

"How do you know?"

"I know. It is not right, darling!"

"But if I wa