Then she rose, removed the pipe
from the samovar, trying not to make a noise, washed herself, and
began to pray, crossing herself piously, and noiselessly moving her
lips. Her face was radiant, and her right eyebrow kept rising
gradually and suddenly dropping.
The second whistle blew more softly with less assurance, a tremor
in its thick and mellow sound. It seemed to the mother that the
whistle lasted longer to-day than ever. The clear, musical voice
of the Little Russian sounded in the room:
"Pavel, do you hear? They're calling."
The mother heard the patter of bare feet on the floor and some one
yawn with gusto.
"The samovar is ready," she cried.
"We're getting up," Pavel answered merrily.
"The sun is rising," said the Little Russian. "The clouds are
racing; they're out of place to-day." He went into the kitchen all
disheveled but jolly after his sleep. "Good morning, mother dear;
how did you sleep?"
The mother went to him and whispered:
"Andriusha, keep close to him."
"Certainly. As long as it depends on us, we'll always stick to
each other, you may be sure."
"What's that whispering about?" Pavel asked.
"Nothing. She told me to wash myself better, so the girls will
look at me," replied the Little Russian, going out on the porch
to wash himself.
Pages:
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274