Good old Iermola gazed with rapture upon his precious baby. "How beautiful he is!" he cried after a moment. "It must be the child of some nobleman."
"He is a fine hearty boy," interrupted the widow; "but all children look alike when they are small. It is only later on, my good old man, that it is possible to distinguish those who have sprouted up under the hedge like a bunch of nettles from those who have grown up in the sunshine in the open fields. But at least this one is as lively as a fish; so much the better for you,--you will have less trouble."
Iermola laughed, but at the same moment his eyes filled with tears.
"Mother," he replied, "never in all my life have I seen so beautiful a baby."
"You have lost your senses, Iermola," cried the cossack's widow, bursting into a loud laugh and shrugging her shoulders. "Are you really thinking of bringing up the child yourself all alone?"
"And why not?" replied the astonished old man. "Do you suppose I would turn him over to strangers?"
"But you will not be able to do it. It seems an easy thing to you; but what will you do all alone, no woman near you at your age? Remember it must be fed, bathed, put to bed, amused, and looked after; this will be too great a task for you, all by yourself."
"Let me alone," answered Iermola, waving his hand. "It is not the saints who boil the pots;[[5]] I will prove it to you. You shall tell me what to do; and as true as there is a God in heaven, I never will be separated from this baby."
"Has the old man gone crazy?" cried the widow, shrugging her shoulders. "He thinks it is as easy to bring up a child as it is to raise a little dog; and how much worry and fatigue he will have during two long years!"
"The longer the better. Don't say anything to me, mother, don't say anything; I will not listen to you, I will bring him up; I shall do it well, you will see."