ere followed by a stout, middle-aged lady, and a tall, lanky
gentleman with grey whiskers; behind them came two schoolboys, laden
with bags, and after the schoolboys, the governess, after the
governess the grandmother.

"Here we are, here we are, dear boy!" began the whiskered gentleman,
squeezing Sasha's hand. "Sick of waiting for us, I expect! You have
been pitching into your old uncle for not coming down all this time,
I daresay! Kolya, Kostya, Nina, Fifa . . . children! Kiss your
cousin Sasha! We're all here, the whole troop of us, just for three
or four days. . . . I hope we shan't be too many for you? You mustn't
let us put you out!"

At the sight of their uncle and his family, the young couple were
horror-stricken. While his uncle talked and kissed them, Sasha had
a vision of their little cottage: he and Varya giving up their three
little rooms, all the pillows and bedding to their guests; the
salmon, the sardines, the chicken all devoured in a single instant;
the cousins plucking the flowers in their little garden, spilling
the ink, filled the cottage with noise and confusion; his aunt
talking continually about her ailments and her papa's having been
Baron von Fintich. . . .

And Sasha looked almost with hatred at his young wife, and whispered:

"It's you they've come to see! . . . Damn them!"

"No, it's you," answered Varya, pale with anger. "They're your
relations! they're not mine!"

And turning to her visitors, she said with a smile of welcome:
"Welcome to the cottage!"

The moon came out again. She seemed to smile, as though she were
glad she had no relations. Sasha, turning his head away to hide his
angry despairing face, struggled to give a note of cordial welcome
to his voice as he said:

"It is jolly of you! Welcome to the cottage!"

A BLUNDER

ILYA SERGEITCH PEPLOV and his wife Kleopatra Petrovna were standing
at the door, listening greedily. On the other side in the little
drawing-room a love scene was apparently taking place between two
persons: their daughter Natashenka and a teacher of the district
school, called Shchupkin.

"He's rising!" whispered Peplov, quivering with impatience and
rubbing his hands. "Now, Kleopatra, mind; as soon as they begin
talking of their feelings, take down the ikon from the wall and
we'll go in and bless them. . . . We'll catch him. . . . A blessing
with an ikon is sacred and binding. . . He couldn't get out of it,
if he brought it into court."

On