y you spoke was not exactly
Russian," she explained, catching his joke.

"I am better than a Russian, I am!" said the guest laughingly. "I am a
Little Russian from the city of Kanyev."

"And have you been here long?"

"I lived in the city about a month, and I came to your factory about a
month ago. I found some good people, your son and a few others. I will
live here for a while," he said, twirling his mustache.

The man pleased the mother, and, yielding to the impulse to repay him
in some way for his kind words about her son, she questioned again:

"Maybe you'd like to have a glass of tea?"

"What! An entertainment all to myself!" he answered, raising his
shoulders. "I'll wait for the honor until we are all here."

This allusion to the coming of others recalled her fear to her.

"If they all are only like this one!" was her ardent wish.

Again steps were heard on the porch. The door opened quickly, and the
mother rose. This time she was taken completely aback by the newcomer
in her kitchen--a poorly and lightly dressed girl of medium height,
with the simple face of a peasant woman, and a head of thick, dark
hair. Smiling she said in a low voice:

"Am I late?"

"Why, no!" answered the Little Russian, looking out of the living room.
"Come on foot?"

"Of course! Are you the mother of Pavel Vlasov? Good evening! My name
is Natasha."

"And your other name?" inquired the mother.

"Vasilyevna. And yours?"

"Pelagueya Nilovna."

"So here we are all acquainted."

"Yes," said the mother, breathing more easily, as if relieved, and
looking at the girl with a smile.

The Little Russian helped her off with her cloak, and inquired:

"Is it cold?"

"Out in the open, very! The wind--goodness!"

Her voice was musical and clear, her mouth small and smiling, her body
round and vigorous. Removing her wraps, she rubbed her ruddy cheeks
briskly with her little hands, red with the cold, and walking lightly
and quickly she passed into the room, the heels of her shoes rapping
sharply on the floor.

"She goes without overshoes," the mother noted silently.

"Indeed it is cold," repeated the girl. "I'm frozen through--ooh!"

"I'll warm up the samovar for you!" the mother said, bustling and
solicitous. "Ready in a moment," she called from the kitchen.

Somehow it seemed to her she had known the girl long, and even loved
her with the tender, compassionate love of a mother. She was glad to
see her; and r