trooped round her with expressions of delight, and the little girl—the same that had danced about in her place—hung wearily on her hand, blinking heavily with sleepy eyes.
As Sashka approached her he seemed almost choking with emotion.
"Auntie — auntie!"[1] said he, trying to speak caressingly, but his voice sounded harsher than ever. "Auntie, dear!"
She did not hear him, so he tugged impatiently at her dress.
"What's the matter with you? Why are you pulling my dress?" said the grey-haired lady in surprise. "It's rude."
"Auntie—auntie, do give me one thing from the tree; give me the little angel."
"Impossible," replied the lady in a tone of indifference. "We are going to keep the tree decorated till the New Year. But you are no longer a child; you should call me by name—Maria Dmitrievna."
Sashka, feeling as if he were falling down a precipice, grasped the last means of saving himself.
"I am sorry I have been naughty. I'll be more industrious for the future," he blurted out. But this formula, which had always paid with his masters, made no impression upon the lady of the grey hair.
- ↑ This is, of course, only a child's way of addressing an elder.—Tr.
