ecalling her guest's bright blue eyes, she smiled
contentedly, as she prepared the samovar and listened to the
conversation in the room.

"Why so gloomy, Nakhodka?" asked the girl.

"The widow has good eyes," answered the Little Russian. "I was
thinking maybe my mother has such eyes. You know, I keep thinking of
her as alive."

"You said she was dead?"

"That's my adopted mother. I am speaking now of my real mother. It
seems to me that perhaps she may be somewhere in Kiev begging alms and
drinking whisky."

"Why do you think such awful things?"

"I don't know. And the policemen pick her up on the street drunk and
beat her."

"Oh, you poor soul," thought the mother, and sighed.

Natasha muttered something hotly and rapidly; and again the sonorous
voice of the Little Russian was heard.

"Ah, you are young yet, comrade," he said. "You haven't eaten enough
onions yet. Everyone has a mother, none the less people are bad. For
although it is hard to rear children, it is still harder to teach a man
to be good."

"What strange ideas he has," the mother thought, and for a moment she
felt like contradicting the Little Russian and telling him that here
was she who would have been glad to teach her son good, but knew
nothing herself. The door, however, opened and in came Nikolay
Vyesovshchikov, the son of the old thief Daniel, known in the village
as a misanthrope. He always kept at a sullen distance from people, who
retaliated by making sport of him.

"You, Nikolay! How's that?" she asked in surprise.

Without replying he merely looked at the mother with his little gray
eyes, and wiped his pockmarked, high-cheeked face with the broad palm
of his hand.

"Is Pavel at home?" he asked hoarsely.

"No."

He looked into the room and said:

"Good evening, comrades."

"He, too. Is it possible?" wondered the mother resentfully, and was
greatly surprised to see Natasha put her hand out to him in a kind,
glad welcome.

The next to come were two young men, scarcely more than boys. One of
them the mother knew. He was Yakob, the son of the factory watchman,
Somov. The other, with a sharp-featured face, high forehead, and curly
hair, was unknown to her; but he, too, was not terrible.

Finally Pavel appeared, and with him two men, both of whose faces she
recognized as those of workmen in the factory.

"You've prepared the samovar! That's fine. Thank you!" said Pavel as
he saw what his mother had done.