powders for. I have brought some. (Unties the knot in her handkerchief and takes out some powders in a piece of paper.) What is good for me, I see; and what I ought not to know, I neither see nor hear. That's the way it is with me. Aunt Matréna was once young herself. You see, one must know how to get along with a fool. I know all the ropes. I see, my dear, your old man is pretty far gone. What strength has he? Stick a fork into him, and no blood will come out. I think you will bury him by spring. You will have to take somebody on your farm. And is not my son as good a peasant as any? Then, what advantage could I gain from driving him away from a good thing? You do not suppose I am my son's enemy?
Anísya. If he only would not leave us.
Matréna. He will not, my birdie. That is all nonsense. You know my old man. His brain is all cracked. At times he fills it up, and braces it with a post that you can't knock out from under him.
Anísya. What caused all this?
Matréna. You see, my dear, my boy has a weakness for women, and, it must be said, he is a fine-looking fellow. So, you see, he has worked on the railroad. At that time a certain orphan girl was serving there as a cook, and she was all the time after him.
Anísya. Marína?
Matréna. The same,—may she be paralyzed. I do not know whether anything happened or not, only my old man found it out. He heard it from others, or she herself told him—
Anísya. But she was bold,—that accursed one!
Matréna. So my old man—the stupid fellow he is—insists upon my son's marrying her so as to cover the sin. "We will take our boy home," says he, "and get him married." I tried every way to dissuade him, but all in vain. Well, thought I, let it be. I will try in a dif-
