"She goes without overshoes," the mother noted silently.
"Indeed it is cold," repeated the girl. "I'm frozen through--ooh!"
"I'll warm up the samovar for you!" the mother said, bustling and
solicitous. "Ready in a moment," she called from the kitchen.
Somehow it seemed to her she had known the girl long, and even loved
her with the tender, compassionate love of a mother. She was glad
to see her; and recalling her guest's bright blue eyes, she smiled
contentedly, as she prepared the samovar and listened to the
conversation in the room.
"Why so gloomy, Nakhodka?" asked the girl.
"The widow has good eyes," answered the Little Russian. "I was
thinking maybe my mother has such eyes. You know, I keep thinking
of her as alive."
"You said she was dead?"
"That's my adopted mother. I am speaking now of my real mother.
It seems to me that perhaps she may be somewhere in Kiev begging
alms and drinking whisky."
"Why do you think such awful things?"
"I don't know. And the policemen pick her up on the street drunk
and beat her."
"Oh, you poor soul," thought the mother, and sighed.
Natasha muttered something hotly and rapidly; and again the sonorous
voice of the Little Russian was heard.
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