Next day the old man came to see his son, and sat with him, as
usual, for about an hour; after which he visited ourselves,
wearing on his face the most comical, the most mysterious
expression conceivable. Smiling broadly with satisfaction at the
thought that he was the possessor of a secret, he informed me
that he had stealthily brought the books to our rooms, and hidden
them in a corner of the kitchen, under Matrena's care. Next, by a
natural transition, the conversation passed to the coming fete-
day; whereupon, the old man proceeded to hold forth extensively
on the subject of gifts. The further he delved into his thesis,
and the more he expounded it, the clearer could I see that on his
mind there was something which he could not, dared not, divulge.
So I waited and kept silent. The mysterious exaltation, the
repressed satisfaction which I had hitherto discerned in his
antics and grimaces and left-eyed winks gradually disappeared,
and he began to grow momentarily more anxious and uneasy. At
length he could contain himself no longer.

"Listen, Barbara Alexievna," he said timidly. "Listen to what I
have got to say to you. When his birthday is come, do you take
TEN of the books, and give them to him yourself--that is, FOR
yourself, as being YOUR share of the gift. Then I will take the
eleventh book, and give it to him MYSELF, as being my gift. If we
do that, you will have a present for him and I shall have one--
both of us alike."

"Why do you not want us to present our gifts together, Zachar
Petrovitch?" I asked him.

"Oh, very well," he replied. "Very well, Barbara Alexievna. Only-