Ivan Makaruitch's sister. “And have you no news of him?”
“He was at Omon's last vcinter ; and this season, I heard, he's in some gardens outside town. . . . He's grown old. Once in the summer he'd bring home ten roubles a day, but now everywhere business is dull — the old man's in a bad way.”
The women, old and young, looked at the high felt boots on Nikolai's legs, and at his pale face, and said sadly —
“You're no money-maker, Nikolai Osipuitch, no money-bringer!”
And all caressed Sasha. Sasha was past her tenth birthday, but, small and very thin, she looked not more than seven. Among the sunburnt, untidy village girls, in their long cotton shirts, pale-faced, big-eyed Sasha, with the red ribbon in her hair, seemed a toy, a little strange animal caught in the fields, and brought back to the hut.
“And she knows how to read!” boasted Olga, looking tenderly at her daiighter. “Read something, child!” she said, taking a New Testament from the corner. “Read something aloud and let the orthodox listen!”
The old, heavy, leather-bound, bent-edged Bible smelt like a monk. Sasha raised her eyebrows, and began in a loud drawl —
“. . . And when they were departed, behold the
