her face. On seeing me, she was much taken aback and turned away.

'What's the matter?' Elisei said to her; 'go on, don't be afraid.'

I went up to her and took her by the hand.

'What is your name?' I asked her.

'Masha,' she replied in a soft voice, stealing a glance at me.

She looked about two- or three-and-twenty; she had a round, rather
simple-looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and
very pretty and clean little hands. She was tidily dressed.

'You knew Yakov Ivanitch?' I pursued.

'I used to know him,' she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief,
and the tears stood in her eyes.

I asked her to sit down.

She sat down at once on the edge of a chair, without any affectation of
ceremony. Elisei went out.

'You became acquainted with him in Novgorod?'

'Yes, in Novgorod,' she answered, clasping her hands under her
kerchief. 'I only heard the day before yesterday, from Elisei
Timofeitch, of his death. Yakov Ivanitch, when he went away to Siberia,
promised to write to me, and twice he did write, and then he wrote no