come from a man.

"That's my husband's brother, Yegor Semyonitch," the little lady
explained, noticing my surprise. "He's been living with us for the
last year. Please excuse him; he cannot come in to see you. He is
such an unsociable person, he is shy with strangers. He is going
into a monastery. He was unfairly treated in the service, and the
disappointment has preyed on his mind."

After supper the little lady showed the vestment which Yegor
Semyonitch was embroidering with his own hands as an offering for
the Church. Manetchka threw off her shyness for a moment and showed
me the tobacco-pouch she was embroidering for her father. When I
pretended to be greatly struck by her work, she flushed crimson and
whispered something in her mother's ear. The latter beamed all over,
and invited me to go with her to the store-room. There I was shown
five large trunks, and a number of smaller trunks and boxes.

"This is her trousseau," her mother whispered; "we made it all
ourselves."

After looking at these forbidding trunks I took leave of my hospitable
hostesses. They made me promise to come and see them again some
day.

It happened that I was able to keep this promise. Seven years after
my first visit, I was sent down to the little town to give expert
evidence in a case that was being tried there.

As I entered the little house I heard the same "Ach!" echo through
it. They recognised me at once. . . . Well they might! My first
visit had been an event in their lives, and when events are few
they are long remembered.

I walked into the drawing-room: the mother, who had grown stouter
and was already getting grey, was creeping about on the floor,
cutting out some blue material. The daughter was sitting on the
sofa, embroidering.

There was the same smell of moth powder; there were the same patterns,
the same portrait with the broken glass. But yet there was a change.
Beside the portrait of the bishop hung a portrait of the Colonel,
and the ladies were in mourning. The Colonel's death had occurred
a week after his promotion to be a general.

Reminiscences began. . . . The widow shed tears.

"We have had a terrible loss," she said. "My husband, you know, is
dead. We are alone in the world now, and have no one but ourselves
to look to. Yegor Semyonitch is alive, but I have no good news to
tell of him. They would not have him in the monastery on account
of--of intoxicating beverages. And now in his disappointment he
dr