me kindly what the matter was, Had I had a disagreeable dream? His good
German face and the sympathy with which he sought to know the cause
of my tears made them flow the faster. I felt conscience-stricken, and
could not understand how, only a minute ago, I had been hating Karl,
and thinking his dressing-gown and cap and tassel disgusting. On the
contrary, they looked eminently lovable now. Even the tassel seemed
another token of his goodness. I replied that I was crying because I had
had a bad dream, and had seen Mamma dead and being buried. Of course it
was a mere invention, since I did not remember having dreamt anything
at all that night, but the truth was that Karl's sympathy as he tried to
comfort and reassure me had gradually made me believe that I HAD dreamt
such a horrible dream, and so weep the more--though from a different
cause to the one he imagined.

When Karl Ivanitch had left me, I sat up in bed and proceeded to draw
my stockings over my little feet. The tears had quite dried now, yet the
mournful thought of the invented dream was still haunting me a little.
Presently Uncle [This term is often applied by children to old servants
in Russia] Nicola came in--a neat little man who was always grave,
methodical, and respectful, as well as a great friend of Karl's, He
brought with him our clothes and boots--at least, boots for Woloda, and
for myself the old detestable, be-ribanded shoes. In his presence I
felt ashamed to cry, and, moreover, the morning sun was shining so gaily
through the window, and Woloda, standing at the washstand as he mimicked
Maria Ivanovna (my sister's governess), was laughing so loud and so
long, that even the serious Nicola--a towel over his shoulder, the soap
in one hand, and the basin in the other--could not help smiling as he
said, "Will you please let me wash you, Vladimir Petrovitch?" I had
cheered up completely.