uch from her own
property as from her husband's savings. Her two daughters were living
with her; her son was being educated in one of the best government
schools in Petersburg.

The old lady sitting with Marya Dmitrievna at the window was her
father's sister, the same aunt with whom she had once spent some
solitary years in Pokrovskoe. Her name was Marfa Timofyevna Pestov. She
had a reputation for eccentricity as she was a woman of an independent
character, told every one the truth to his face, and even in the most
straitened circumstances behaved just as if she had a fortune at her
disposal. She could not endure Kalitin, and directly her niece married
him, she removed to her little property, where for ten whole years she
lived in a smoky peasants' hut. Marya Dmitrievna was a little afraid of
her. A little sharp-nosed woman with black hair and keen eyes even in
her old age, Marfa Timofyevna walked briskly, held herself upright and
spoke quickly and clearly in a sharp ringing voice. She always wore a
white cap and a white dressing-jacket.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked Marya Dmitrievna suddenly. "What
are you sighing about, pray?"

"Nothing," answered the latter. "What exquisite clouds!"

"You feel sorry for them, eh?"

Marya Dmitrievna made no reply.

"Why is it Gedeonovsky does not come?" observed Marfa Timofyevna, moving
her knitting needles quickly. (She was knitting a large woolen scarf.)
"He would have sighed with you--or at least he'd have had some fib to
tell you."

"How hard you always are on him! Sergei Petrovitch is a worthy man."

"Worthy!" repeated the old lady scornfully.

"And how devoted he was to my poor husband!" observed Marya Dmitrievna;
"even now he cannot speak of him without emotion."

"And no wonder! It was he who picked him out of the gutter," muttered
Marfa Timofyevna, and her knitting needles moved faster than ever.

"He looks so meek and mild," she began again, "with his grey head, but
he no sooner opens his mouth than out comes a lie or a slander. And to
think of his having the rank of a councillor! To be sure, though, he's
only a village priest's son."

"Every one has faults, auntie; that is his weak point, no doubt. Sergei
Petrovitch has had no education: of course he does not speak French,
still, say what you like, he is an agreeable man."

"Yes, he is always ready to kiss your hands. He does not speak
French--that's no great loss. I am not over strong in the Fren