the seed!
And when you are able to read, then--" He stopped and began to laugh;
then rose and paced up and down the room.

"Yes, you must learn to read! And when Pavel gets back, won't you
surprise him, eh?"

"Oh, Andriusha! For a young man everything is simple and easy! But
when you have lived to my age, you have lots of trouble, little
strength, and no mind at all left."

In the evening the Little Russian went out. The mother lit a lamp and
sat down at a table to knit stockings. But soon she rose again, walked
irresolutely into the kitchen, bolted the outer door, and straining her
eyebrows walked back into the living room. She pulled down the window
curtains, and taking a book from the shelf, sat down at the table
again, looked around, bent down over the book, and began to move her
lips. When she heard a noise on the street, she started, clapped the
book shut with the palm of her hand, and listened intently. And again,
now closing, now opening her eyes, she whispered:

"E--z--a."

With even precision and stern regularity the dull tick of the pendulum
marked the dying seconds.

A knock at the door was heard; the mother jumped quickly to her feet,
thrust the book on the shelf, and walking up to the door asked
anxiously:

"Who's there?"

CHAPTER XIII

Rybin came in, greeted her, and stroking his beard in a dignified
manner and peeping into the room with his dark eyes, remarked:

"You used to let people into your house before, without inquiring who
they were. Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"You are? I thought the Little Russian was here. I saw him to-day.
The prison doesn't spoil a man. Stupidity, that's what spoils most of
all."

He walked into the room, sat down and said to the mother:

"Let's have a talk together. I have something to tell you. I have a
theory!" There was a significant and mysterious expression in his face
as he said this. It filled the mother with a sense of foreboding. She
sat down opposite him and waited in mute anxiety for him to speak.

"Everything costs money!" he began in his gruff, heavy voice. "It
takes money to be born; it takes money to die. Books and leaflets cost
money, too. Now, then, do you know where all this money for the books
comes from?"

"No, I don't know," replied the mother in a low voice, anticipating
danger.

"Nor do I! Another question I've got to ask is: Who writes those
books? The educated folks. The masters!" Rybin spoke cur