Yermolaï threw a few pine twigs on the fire; they all caught fire at once, and a thick white smoke came puffing into his face.
'Why didn't your husband let us into the cottage?'
'He's afraid.'
'Afraid! the fat old tub! Arina Timofyevna, my darling, bring me a little glass of spirits.'
The miller's wife rose and vanished into the darkness. Yermolaï began to sing in an undertone—
'When I went to see my sweetheart,
I wore out all my shoes.'
Arina returned with a small flask and a glass. Yermolaï got up, crossed himself, and drank it off at a draught. 'Good!' was his comment.
The miller's wife sat down again on the tub.
'Well, Arina Timofyevna, are you still ill?'
'Yes.'