s fires.

"Very well, mother! Forgive me. I see all now!" he muttered, lowering
his head. Glancing at her with a light smile, he added, embarrassed
but happy: "I will not forget this, mother, upon my word."

She pushed him from her, and looking into the room she said to Andrey
in a good-natured tone of entreaty:

"Andriusha, please don't you shout at him so! Of course, you are older
than he, and so you----"

The Little Russian was standing with his back toward her. He sang out
drolly without turning around to face her:

"Oh, oh, oh! I'll bawl at him, be sure! And I'll beat him some day,
too."

She walked up slowly to him, with outstretched hand, and said:

"My dear, dear man!"

The Little Russian turned around, bent his head like an ox, and folding
his hands behind his back walked past her into the kitchen. Thence his
voice issued in a tone of mock sullenness:

"You had better go away, Pavel, so I shan't bite your head off! I am
only joking, mother; don't believe it! I want to prepare the samovar.
What coals these are! Wet, the devil take them!"

He became silent, and when the mother walked into the kitchen he was
sitting on the floor, blowing the coals in the samovar. Without
looking at her the Little Russian began again:

"Yes, mother, don't be afraid. I won't touch him. You know, I'm a
good-natured chap, soft as a stewed turnip. And then--you hero out
there, don't listen--I love him! But I don't like the waistcoat he
wears. You see, he has put on a new waistcoat, and he likes it very
much, so he goes strutting about, and pushes everybody, crying: 'See,
see what a waistcoat I have on!' It's true, it's a fine waistcoat.
But what's the use of pushing people? It's hot enough for us without
it."

Pavel smiled and asked:

"How long do you mean to keep up your jabbering? You gave me one
thrashing with your tongue. That's enough!"

Sitting on the floor, the Little Russian spread his legs around the
samovar, and regarded Pavel. The mother stood at the door, and fixed a
sad, affectionate gaze at Andrey's long, bent neck and the round back
of his head. He threw his body back, supporting himself with his hands
on the floor, looked at the mother and at the son with his slightly
reddened and blinking eyes, and said in a low, hearty voice:

"You are good people, yes, you are!"

Pavel bent down and grasped his hand.

"Don't pull my hand," said the Little Russian gruffly. "You'll let go
a