ddenly very cold. The rain had ceased, but the dull sky was still
overcast with clouds, and a keen wind was blowing straight in his face.

"I've taken a chill," thought Mitya, twitching his shoulders.

At last Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, too, got into the cart, sat down heavily,
and, as though without noticing it, squeezed Mitya into the corner. It is
true that he was out of humor and greatly disliked the task that had been
laid upon him.

"Good-by, Trifon Borissovitch!" Mitya shouted again, and felt himself,
that he had not called out this time from good-nature, but involuntarily,
from resentment.

But Trifon Borissovitch stood proudly, with both hands behind his back,
and staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry face, he made no
reply.

"Good-by, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, good-by!" he heard all at once the voice of
Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart he held out
his hand to Mitya. He had no cap on.

Mitya had time to seize and press his hand.

"Good-by, dear fellow! I shan't forget your generosity," he cried warmly.

But the cart moved and their hands parted. The bell began ringing and
Mitya was driven off.

Kalganov ran back, sat down in a corner, bent his head, hid his face in
his hands, and burst out crying. For a long while he sat like that, crying
as though he were a little boy instead of a young man of twenty. Oh, he
believed almost without doubt in Mitya's guilt.

"What are these people? What can men be after this?" he exclaimed
incoherently, in bitter despondency, almost despair. At that moment he had
no desire to live.

"Is it worth it? Is it worth it?" exclaimed the boy in his grief.

PART IV

Book X. The Boys

Chapter I. Kolya Krassotkin

It was the beginning of November. There had been a hard frost, eleven
degrees Reaumur, without snow, but a little dry snow had fallen on the
frozen ground during the night, and a keen dry wind was lifting and
blowing it along the dreary streets of our town, especially about the
market-place. It was a dull morning, but the snow had ceased.

Not far from the market-place, close to Plotnikov's shop, there stood a
small house, very clean both without and within. It belonged to Madame
Krassotkin, the widow of a former provincial secretary, who had been dead
for fourteen years. His widow, still a nice-looking woman of thirty-two,
was living in her neat little house on her private means. She lived in
respectable secl