“Eh, babushka, babushka,” said Avdyeitch, “that is right according to our judgment, but not according to God's. If he is to be whipped for an apple, then what ought to be done to us for our sins?”
The old woman was silent.
And Avdyeitch told her the parable of the master who forgave a debtor all that he owed him, and how the debtor went and began to choke one who owed him.
The old woman listened, and the boy stood listening.
“God has commanded us to forgive,” said Avdyeitch, “else we, too, may not be forgiven. All should be forgiven, and the thoughtless especially.”
The old woman shook her head, and sighed.
“That's so,” said she; “but the trouble is that they are very much spoiled.”
“Then we who are older must teach them,” said Avdyeitch.
“That's just what I say,” remarked the old woman. “I myself have had seven of them,—only one daughter is left.”
And the old woman began to relate where and how she lived with her daughter, and how many grandchildren she had. “Here,” she says, “my strength is only so-so, and yet I have to work. I pity the youngsters—my grandchildren—but what nice children they are! No one gives me such a welcome as they do. Aksintka won't go to anyone but me. ‘Babushka, dear babushka, lovliest.’”