second month since he died."

"And were you married to him long ago?"

"I lived with him one year in all."

"And whence come you now?"

"I come from the vicinity of Tula.... There is a village there called
Znamenskoe-Glushkovo--perhaps you deign to know it. I am the daughter of
the sexton there. Mikhail Andreitch and I lived there.... He settled
down with my father. We lived together a year in all." The young woman's
lips twitched slightly, and she raised her hand to them. She seemed to
be getting ready to cry, but conquered herself, and cleared her throat.

"The late Mikhail Andreitch, before his death," she went on, "bade me go
to you. 'Be sure to go,' he said. And he told me that I was to thank you
for all your goodness, and transmit to you ... this ... trifle" (she
drew from her pocket a small package), "which he always carried on his
person.... And Mikhail Andreitch said, Wouldn't you be so kind as to
accept it in memory--that you must not scorn it.... 'I have nothing else
to give him,' ... meaning you ... he said...."

In the packet was a small silver cup with the monogram of Mikhail's
mother. This tiny cup I had often seen in Mikhail's hands; and once he
had even said to me, in speaking of a pauper, that he must be stripped
bare, since he had neither cup nor bowl, "while I have this here," he
said.

I thanked her, took the cup and inquired, "Of what malady did Mikhail
Andreitch die?--Probably...."

Here I bit my tongue, but the young woman understood my unspoken
thought.... She darted a swift glance at me, then dropped her eyes,
smiled sadly, and immediately said, "Akh, no! He had abandoned that
entirely from the time he made my acquaintance.... Only, what health had
he?!... It was utterly ruined. As soon as he gave up drinking, his
malady immediately manifested itself. He became so steady, he was always
wanting to help my father, either in the household affairs, or in the
vegetable garden ... or whatever other work happened to be on hand ...
in spite of the fact that he was of noble birth. Only, where was he to
get the strength?... And he would have liked to busy himself in the
department of writing also,--he knew how to do that beautifully, as you
are aware; but his hands shook so, and he could not hold the pen
properly.... He was always reproaching himself: 'I'm an idle dog,' he
said. 'I have done no one any good, I have helped no one, I have not
toiled!' He was very much afflicted over that same....