with cheeks puffed out, stood at the stove and soldered. It was stifling. His children, skinny and unwashed — no better than the Tchikildeyeffs' — sprawled on the floor ; his ugly, freckled wife wound silk. This, too, was an unhappy, God-forsaken family; alone Antip was smart and good-looking. On a bench in a row stood five samovars. The old man prayed towards the Battenberg prince, and began —
“Antip, show the mercy of God: give me the samovar! For the love of God!”
“Bring me three roubles, and then you'll get it.”
“I haven't got them.”
Antip puffed out his cheeks, the fire hummed and hissed, and the samovars shone. The old man fumbled with his cap, thought a moment, and repeated —
“Give it to me!”
The swarthy starosta seemed quite black and resembled a wizard; he turned to Osip and said roughly and quickly —
“All depends from the Rural Chief. In the administrative session of the twenty-sixth of this month you can expose the causes of your dissatisfaction verbally or in writing.”
Not one of these learned words was understood by Osip, but he felt contented, and returned to his hut.
Ten days later the superintendent returned, stayed about an hour, and drove away. It had turned windy and cold, but though the river was frozen, there was
