'I mustn't say.'

'Perhaps someone has offended you?'

'No one has offended me; God has punished me.'

'Of course everything is done by God; but still one has to abide somewhere. Whither do you want to go?'

'It's all one to me.'

Simon wonders; the man didn't look a mischief-maker; his words were soft, but he objected to speak of himself. And Simon thought to himself, 'Who knows what may have happened?' and he said to his companion,

'Never mind, come to my home; at least you'll warm yourself.'

Simon reaches his yard, and the stranger does not lag behind, but walks by his side. A biting wind began to rise and find its way under Simon's coat, and he began to get quite sober and to feel quite frozen. He sniffled as he went, wrapped himself round in his woman's doublet, and thought, 'Here's a pretty sheepskin. Matrona won't praise me for this! I went off to get one, and I came home even without my overcoat, yes, and along with a half-clothed man.' And the thought of Matrona made him feel uneasy. But when he looked on the stranger, he remembered the look the man gave him at the chapel, and his heart throbbed with delight.

III

6

SIMON'S wife rose early. She cut up wood, brought water, fed the infant, eat, and thought to herself again and again, When shall I bake bread, to-day or to-morrow?' A large bit remained.

'Should Simon dine here and not eat much supper, there will be enough bread for to-morrow,' she thought to herself.

Matrona turned the bit over and over and thought to herself, 'I won't bake now. There is no more than enough flour to do this with. We can manage till Friday.'

Matrona took away the bread, and sat down at a table to sew a patch on her husband's shirt, and as she sewed she thought of her husband, of how he would buy a sheepskin.

Perhaps the tanner will take him in. He's a simple fellow, that man of mine. He never tricks another himself, but a little child could take him in. That's a lot of money, eight roubles. One can get a fine coat for that. Not a dyed one, but a sheepskin. What straits I was put to last winter for want of a sheepskin! I couldn't go to the stream, or anywhere else. And now he has gone off with all my clothes. I haven't got a thing to put on. He didn't start early. It is time he were back again. Perhaps he has been tippling, that bird of mine.'

Such thoughts had scarcely passed through Matrona's head, when the steps of the staircase began to creak. Someone had come in. Matrona thrust in her needle, and went into the vestibule. She saw

that two were coming in, Simon along with a countryman, with no hat on and in felt boots.

Matrona perceived at once the smell of wine in her husband. 'Yes,' she thought, 'that's it. He has been tippling with some goodfor-nothing fellow, and has even brought him along home with him.'

Matrona let them pass into the cottage, and went in herself. She saw before her a stranger, a young, thin man, and their overcoat over his shoulders. There was no shirt to be seen under the coat, and he wore no hat. He stood as he had come in, without moving and with downcast eyes. And Matrona thought to herself, That's a bad man-he's afraid.'

Matrona frowned and moved away to the stove. There she stood and watched what they would do.

Simon took off his hat, and sat on a bench like a good soul.
'Well, Matrona,' he said, 'let's have some supper.

Matrona muttered something between her teeth. She stood at the stove without moving, and looked first on one and then on the other, only turning her head as she did so. Simon sees that his wife is not herself, but, however, he does not pay attention to that, and takes the stranger by the hand.

'Sit down, my friend,' he said; 'we will have some supper.' The stranger sat on the bench.

Well, wife, haven't you boiled anything yet?'

Matrona quite lost her temper.

'Not for you indeed! I see you have drunk yourself mad.

You

went to get a sheepskin, and you've come back without an overcoat, and have brought home with you some half-clothed vagrant or other. I have no supper for you, you drunkard.'

Enough, Matrona; what do you talk nonsense for? You should first ask what sort of a man

'Tell me what you have done with the money.'

Simon fumbled in his overcoat, drew out a bit of paper, and unfolded it.

Here is the money. Triphon couldn't give me anything; he promised to pay me to-morrow.

Matrona felt more angry still; he had not bought a skin, and had clothed some vagabond or other in his last overcoat; yes, and had brought him home with him.

She snatched up the paper from the table and put it away, saying,

'I have no supper. We can't feed every half-clothed drunkard here.'

say.'

'Learn sense of a drunken fool! I was quite right in objecting to be your wife, you drunkard: mother gave me linen-you have spent it on drink.'

Simon wished to explain to his wife that he had only drunk twenty kopecks' worth; he wished to say where he had found the man. Matrona did not give him the chance of putting in a word; she broke in at every two words on whatever he began to say. She even reminded him of all that had happened ten years ago.

Matrona talked on without stopping, bustled up to Simon, and seized him by the arms of his coat.

'Give me my under-waistcoat; I had only one left, and you took it off me and lugged it on yourself. Off with it, you spotted dog.'

Simon began to take off the under-waistcoat and draw out the arms. His wife tugged at it till the seams began to crack. Matrona snatched up the under-waistcoat, tossed it over her head, and made for the door. She was on the point of going out, but hesitated and stood still; her heart was agitated—she wished to smother her wrath and to hear something about the stranger.

MATRONA Stood still and said,

IV.

'If he were a good man, he would not be nearly unclothed like that; he has not even got a shirt to his back. Had you gone for something good, you would tell me now where you picked up such a dandy.'

'But I am telling you; on my way I saw this man almost unclothed, and half frozen to death at the chapel. It is not summer now, to be almost naked. It was God who threw me in his way, or else he would have perished. But what was to be done? I therefore took him along with me, clothed him, and brought him hither. Everything may happen. Calm yourself. It's sinful, Matrona, to carry on like this. We must die some day.'

Matrona wanted to have it out with her husband, but she cast a look on the stranger and kept silence. He was sitting quite still on the edge of the bench. His hands were folded on his knees, and his head was sunk on his breast. He was frowning, as if being strangled by something. Matrona became silent. Simon exclaimed,

'Matrona, have you no God in you?'

On hearing these words she gave another look at the stranger, and suddenly her heart melted. She moved away from the door, went up to the corner of the stove, and served supper. She placed a bowl on the table, poured out krass, took out the last bit of bread, and gave a knife and spoons.

'Sup a bit,' she said.

Simon moved the stranger.

'Swallow a few spoonfuls, my lad,' she said.

Simon cut up the bread, crumbled it, and began to sup. And Matrona sat at the corner of the table, propped herself up with her hand, and looked on the stranger.

Matrona began to feel pity for him, and to feel quite fond of him. No. 634 (NO. CLIV. N.S.)

LL

And the stranger suddenly brightened up, left off frowning, lifted up his eyes on Matrona, and smiled.

When they had supped, Matrona cleared the table and began to question the stranger.

'Where do you come from?'

'I'm not from these parts.'

'And how came you on the road?'

'I can't answer that.'

"Who robbed you?'

'God punished me.'

'Were you lying there without clothes on?' "Yes, I was lying naked and half frozen.

Simon saw me, had pity on me, took off his overcoat, put it on me, and told me to come hither. And here And here you have fed me, given me drink, and had pity on me. May God bless you!'

Matrona got up, took from the window-sill an old shirt of Simon's, the same she had mended, and gave it to the stranger.

'Here, take this,' she said. "I see you have no shirt on.

it on, and sleep where you like, in the attic or on the stove.'

Put

The stranger took off his overcoat, put on the shirt, and lay down in the attic. Matrona put out the light, took his overcoat, and climbed up to her husband.

Matrona covered herself with a corner of the overcoat. She lay down, but did not sleep; her thoughts were full of the stranger.

When she remembered that the last bit of bread was eaten up, and that there was none left for the next day-when she remembered that she had made a present of the shirt, she felt ill at ease; but she remembered how he had smiled, and her heart rejoiced.

Matrona lay thus awake a long time, and listened. Simon too was awake; he was pulling the overcoat over him.

'Simon!'

'Well?'

We have eaten the last bit of bread, and I haven't baked any. What shall we do to-morrow? Shall I borrow some of Godmother Melany?'

'If we live we shall have enough.'

His wife lay a little longer without speaking.

'He's evidently a good man, but why doesn't he speak of himself?' 'He can't, no doubt.'

'Simon!'

• Well?'

'We give him, but how is it that nobody gives us anything?'

Simon did not know what to answer.

ing,' turned over, and fell asleep.

He said, Enough of talk

ས.

SIMON awoke at daybreak; the children still slept; his wife had gone to borrow bread of some neighbours. The stranger of the day before was sitting alone on a bench in his shirt, his eyes turned upwards; and he looked more cheerful than he did the evening before.

'Well, good friend,' said Simon, the stomach asks for bread, and the naked body asks for clothes. One must eat and drink. What is

'Well, Michael, you don't want to speak of yourself. Well, that's your own business. But one has to eat and drink. If you do what I tell you I will nourish you.'

'God bless you! I will set to and learn. Show me what I must do.'

Simon took up a piece of unwound, pitched thread, put it on his fingers, and began to wind it.

'It is easy enough, look!"

Michael looked, put it on his fingers in the same way, understood at once, and began to wind.

Michael wound the ends; Simon showed him how to close them. This, too, Michael took in at once. His host showed him how to grind; and this also Michael took in at once.

Whatever work Simon showed him how to do, he was able to take in at once, and the third day he was working as if he had been sewing for an age. He worked on without stopping, ate little, and when they stopped working he would silently look upward. He did not walk in the street, or talk too much, or joke, or laugh.

It was only once they saw him smile, on the first evening, when the wife was preparing to give him some supper.

VI.

DAY after day, week after week passed by; a whole year had slipped round, and Michael was still living as before, and at work with Simon. Everyone praised the work of Simon's workman, and they said that no one could put together a pair of boots so neatly and so strongly as Michael, the workman of Simon. Far and wide they began to order boots of Simon, and he began to live quite at ease.

One day in winter, when Simon and Michael were working together, a coach on slides drove up to the cottage. They looked