An old woman stood over the fire, diligently stirring a capacious caldron, from which there issued a very savoury steam. The family the starost had to feed was not a small one,—three grown-up sons, with the wife and child of one of them, found shelter beneath his roof.
“You are cooking tschi for our supper, mativshka,” said Ivan.
“And what better dish could I be cooking, my little dove? ‘For tschi, folk wed,’ says the proverb.”
“When I am old enough I will wed Anna Popovna.”
“Hush! hush! My darling must not talk so. He is worth a thousand Popovnas.”
“One-eared Michael does not think that.”
“Who cares for one-eared Michael?”
“But, mativshka, to-day he asked me who I was, and I—I had no answer.”
“No answer! Why, every one knows who you are. You are our dear little lord.”
“But whose son am I, mativshka? That was what he wanted to know.”