two in her arms, who threw himself backwards and grabbed at her shawl
with his little hands.

'Where was I? Oh yes, he had a good appointment here, and his chief
was a kind man too. But Vanya could not go on, and had to give up his
position.'

'What is the matter with him?'

'Neurasthenia--it is a dreadful complaint. We consulted a doctor, who
told us he ought to go away, but we had no means. . . . I always hope it
will pass of itself. He has no particular pain, but . . .'

'Lukerya!' cried an angry and feeble voice. 'She is always sent away
when I want her. Mamma . . .'

'I'm coming!' Praskovya Mikhaylovna again interrupted herself. 'He has
not had his dinner yet. He can't eat with us.'

She went out and arranged something, and came back wiping her thin dark
hands.

'So that is how I live. I always complain and am always dissatisfied,
but thank God the grandchildren are all nice and healthy, and we can
still live. But why talk about me?'

'But what do you live on?'

'Well, I earn a little. How I used to dislike music, but how useful it
is to me now!' Her small hand lay on the chest of drawers beside which