"Silly little thing! My father couldn't afford to give us anything more than his consent."
"Well, what do they come to altogether?" she interrupts.
"Altogether," he goes on, "twelve rubles. That makes thirty-eight. What remains over for food?"
She calculates:
"Eighty-two, I suppose."
"For twenty-six weeks."
"Well, after all," she says, "it's over three rubles a week."
"And what," he asks sadly, "what about wood—and candles—Sabbaths and holidays?"
"Ett, God is faithful," she tries to cheer him, "and I can do something, too. Look, I have bought some onions. Eggs are very cheap. I will buy some eggs, too. In a week or so, perhaps, five dozen eggs will yield a little profit."
"But just calculate," he persists, "what we must spend on firing and lights."