her gaze was downcast and rather melancholy, her movements were
embarrassed.

"Are you Madame Pólteff?" I asked, inviting her to be seated.

"Just so, sir," she answered, in a low voice, and without sitting
down.--"I am the widow of your nephew, Mikhaíl Andréevitch Pólteff."

"Is Mikhaíl Andréevitch dead? Has he been dead long?--But sit down, I
beg of you."

She dropped down on a chair.

"This is the second month since he died."

"And were you married to him long ago?"

"I lived with him one year in all."

"And whence come you now?"

"I come from the vicinity of Túla.... There is a village there called
Známenskoe-Glúshkovo--perhaps you deign to know it. I am the daughter of
the sexton there. Mikhaíl Andréitch and I lived there.... He settled
down with my father. We lived together a year in all." The young woman's
lips twitched slightly, and she raised her hand to them. She seemed to
be getting ready to cry, but conquered herself, and cleared her throat.

"The late Mikhaíl Andréitch, before his death," she went on, "bade me go
to you. 'Be sure to go,' he said. And he told me that I was to thank you