"Perhaps I should get some vodka," she suggested, not knowing how to
express her gratitude to him for something which as yet she did not
understand.

"No, we don't need it!" he responded, removing his coat and smiling
affectionately at her.

It suddenly occurred to her that her son, by way of jest, had purposely
exaggerated the danger of the gathering.

"Are these the ones they call illegal people?" she whispered.

"The very ones!" answered Pavel, and passed into the room.

She looked lovingly after him and thought to herself condescendingly:

"Mere children!"

When the samovar boiled, and she brought it into the room, she found
the guests sitting in a close circle around the table, and Natasha
installed in the corner under the lamp with a book in her hands.

"In order to understand why people live so badly," said Natasha.

"And why they are themselves so bad," put in the Little Russian.

"It is necessary to see how they began to live----"

"See, my dears, see!" mumbled the mother, making the tea.

They all stopped talking.

"What is the matter, mother?" asked Pavel, knitting his brows.

"What?" She looked around, and seeing the eyes of all upon her she
explained with embarrassment, "I was just speaking to myself."

Natasha laughed and Pavel smiled, but the Little Russian said: "Thank
you for the tea, mother."

"Hasn't drunk it yet and thanks me already," she commented inwardly.
Looking at her son, she asked: "I am not in your way?"

"How can the hostess in her own home be in the way of her guests?"
replied Natasha, and then continuing with childish plaintiveness:
"Mother dear, give me tea quick! I am shivering with cold; my feet are
all frozen."

"In a moment, in a moment!" exclaimed the mother, hurrying.

Having drunk a cup of tea, Natasha drew a long breath, brushed her hair
back from her forehead, and began to read from a large yellow-covered
book with pictures. The mother, careful not to make a noise with the
dishes, poured tea into the glasses, and strained her untrained mind to
listen to the girl's fluent reading. The melodious voice blended with
the thin, musical hum of the samovar. The clear, simple narrative of
savage people who lived in caves and killed the beasts with stones
floated and quivered like a dainty ribbon in the room. It sounded like
a tale, and the mother looked up to her son occasionally, wishing to
ask him what was illegal in the story about wild men. But she soon
c