e always as if she were going up stairs, even when she was
on level ground. She held herself erect, with her hands folded, and
whatever she did, whatever she undertook--if she only threaded a
needle or smoothed her dress--was well and gracefully done. You will
hardly believe it, but there was something touching in her way of
doing things. Her baptismal name was Raissa, but we called her "Little
Black-Lip," for she had a little mole, like a berry-stain, on her
upper lip, but this did not disfigure her; indeed, it had the contrary
effect. She was just a year older than David. I had for her a feeling
akin to reverence, but she had very little to do with me. Between her
and David, on the other hand, there existed a friendship--a childish
but warm if somewhat strange friendship. They suited one another well:
sometimes for hours they would not exchange a word, but every one felt
that they were enjoying themselves merely because they were together.
I have really never met another girl like her. There was in her
something questioning, yet decided--something honest, and sad,
and dear. I never heard her say anything clever, and also nothing
commonplace, and I have never seen anything more intelligent than her
eyes. When the breach between her family and mine came I began to see
her seldom. My father positively forbade my seeing the Latkins, and
she never appeared at our house; but I used to meet her in the street,
at church, and Little Black-Lip used to inspire me with the same
feeling--esteem, and even a sort of admiration, rather than pity.
She bore her misfortunes well. "The girl is a stone," the coarse
Trankwillitatin once said of her. But in truth one could not help
sympathizing with her. Her face wore a troubled, wearied expression,
and her eyes grew deeper: a burden beyond her strength was laid on
her young shoulders. David used to see her much oftener than I did.
My father troubled himself very little about him: he knew that David
never listened to him. And Raissa used to appear from time to time at
the gate between our garden and the street, and meet David there. She
did not chatter with David, but merely told him of some new loss or
misfortune that had happened to them, and begged for his advice.

The after-consequences of Latkin's paralysis were very strange: his
hands and feet became weak, but still he could use them. Even his
brain worked normally, but his tongue was confused and used to utter
one word in the place o