a concertina, and, jingling the coppers in his pocket and chewing a sunflower seed, disappeared behind the gate.
“Who is that man?” asked Matvei Savvitch.
“My son Alexei,” answered Diudya. “He's gone off to amuse himself, rascal! God cursed him with a hump, so we're not hard on him!”
“He does nothing but play with the children,” sighed Afanasievna. “Before Shrovetide we married him, and thought he'd improve, but he's got worse than ever.”
“It was no use,” said Diudya. “We only made a strange girl happy, without profit.”
From behind the church came the sound of a mournful but pleasant song. The words were indistinguishable, but the voices, two tenors and a bass, could easily be made out. All listened. Suddenly two of the singers, with a loud laugh, ceased to sing, but the third, the tenor, continued, and sang so high that all mechanically looked upward as if they thought the voice had reached the sky. Varvara came out of the house, and, shading her eyes with her hand as if the sun dazzled her, looked at the church.
“It's the priest's sons and the schoolmaster,” she said. Again all three voices sang together. Matvei Savvitch sighed and continued: —
“So it happened, grandfather! . . . Well, in two years a letter came from Vasya. He wrote from
