"Here, Dounia!" shouted the station-master; "get the samovar ready, and run and fetch some cream."
At these words, a girl of about fourteen appeared from behind the partition, and ran into the lobby. I was struck by her beauty.
"Is that thy daughter?" asked I of the station-master.
"Yes, it is," answered he, with an air of satisfied pride; "she is so sensible and so quick, and quite takes after her poor mother."
Here he began to copy my order for horses, whilst I amused myself looking at the prints which ornamented the walls of his humble but neat chamber. They represented the story of the Prodigal Son: in the first, a venerable old man, in a night-cap and dressing-gown, parts with the restless youth, who hastily accepts his blessing and a bag of money. In the next, the dissipated conduct of the young man is portrayed in glaring colours: he is sitting at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Farther on, the ruined youth, in a tattered shirt and cocked hat, is seen feeding swine and sharing their meal; his face expresses deep sorrow and repentance. His return to his father is last represented: the good old man, in the very same night-cap and dressing-gown, rushes to meet him; the prodigal son is on his knees; in the background, the cook is slaying the fatted calf, and the elder brother is inquiring of the servants the reason for so much rejoicing. Under each of these pictures, I read appropriate verses in German. All this has remained impressed on my memory, as have also the pots of balsam,
