. Look
here, my son, you'll have to start to study soon. It is time; you'll
soon be nine years old. Start with the help of God. You'll study during
the winter and in spring I'll take you along with me on the Volga."

"Will I go to school?" asked Foma, timidly.

"First you'll study at home with auntie." Soon after the boy would sit
down near the table in the morning and, fingering the Slavonic alphabet,
repeat after his aunt:

"Az, Buky, Vedy."

When they reached "bra, vra, gra, dra" for a long time the boy could not
read these syllables without laughter. Foma succeeded easily in gaining
knowledge, almost without any effort, and soon he was reading the first
psalm of the first section of the psalter: "Blessed is the man that
walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly."

"That's it, my darling! So, Fomushka, that's right!" chimed in his aunt
with emotion, enraptured by his progress.

"You're a fine fellow, Foma!" Ignat would approvingly say when informed
of his son's progress. "We'll go to Astrakhan for fish in the spring,
and toward autumn I'll send you to school!"

The boy's life rolled onward, like a ball downhill. Being his teacher,
his aunt was his playmate as well. Luba Mayakin used to come, and when
with them, the old woman readily became one of them.

They played at "hide and seek" and "blind man's buff;" the children
were pleased and amused at seeing Anfisa, her eyes covered with a
handkerchief, her arms outstretched, walking about the room carefully,
and yet striking against chairs and tables, or looking for them in each
and every commodious corner, saying:

"Eh, little rascals. Eh, rogues. Where have they hidden themselves? Eh?"

And the sun shone cheerfully and playfully upon the old worn-out body,
which yet retained a youthful soul, and upon the old life, that was
adorning, according to its strength and abilities, the life-path of two
children.

Ignat used to go to the Exchange early in the morning and sometimes
stayed away until evening; in the evening he used to go to the
town council or visiting or elsewhere. Sometimes he returned home
intoxicated. At first Foma, on such occasions, ran from him and hid
himself, then he became accustomed to it, and learned that his father
was better when drunk than sober: he was kinder and plainer and was
somewhat comical. If it happened at night, the boy was usually awakened
by his trumpet-like voice:

"Anfisa! Dear sister! Let me in to my son; let me in to m