under my roof Mísha not only justified my expectations, but exceeded
them; and he simply enchanted my ladies. He played picquet with the old
lady; he helped her to wind yarn; he showed her two new games of
patience; he accompanied the niece, who had a small voice, on the piano;
he read her French and Russian poetry; he narrated diverting but
decorous anecdotes to both ladies;--in a word, he was serviceable to
them in all sorts of ways, so that they repeatedly expressed to me their
surprise, while the old woman even remarked: "How unjust people
sometimes are!... What all have not they said about him ... while he is
so discreet and polite ... poor Mísha!"

It is true that at table "poor Mísha" licked his lips in a
peculiarly-hasty way every time he even looked at a bottle. But all I
had to do was to shake my finger, and he would roll up his eyes, and
press his hand to his heart ... as much as to say: "I have sworn...."

"I am regenerated now!" he assured me.--"Well, God grant it!" I thought
to myself.... But this regeneration did not last long.

During the early days he was very loquacious and jolly. But beginning
with the third day he quieted down, somehow, although, as before, he
kept close to the ladies and amused them. A half-sad, half-thoughtful
expression began to flit across his face, and the face itself grew pale
and thin.

"Art thou ill?" I asked him.

"Yes," he answered;--"my head aches a little."

On the fourth day he became perfectly silent; he sat in a corner most of