Every one laughed at old Iermola's enthusiasm. He was unable to jest on the subject, and for a moment he even began to be doubtful of himself, to hesitate.
"Good mother," said he, in a low voice, a little sadly, "help me, teach me, advise me; you will find that I shall know how to show my gratitude. When harvest-time comes, or when it is time to work your garden, you will find that all that sort of work will cost you nothing."
"Make yourself easy," answered the widow; "you know that I am not stingy with my good advice. I will help you and this orphan; but tell me this one thing, do you really believe that in your old age, and knowing nothing about nursing or bringing up children, you will be able to undertake to be its mother?"
At these words Iermola bowed his head and made no reply. Judging the feelings of others by those of his own heart, he feared that under this pretext some one would come and take his baby from him.
Then he rose, cautiously approached the bench, raised the coverings, took the baby gently in his arms, and started toward the threshold. At that moment the door opened, and Chwedko appeared, accompanied by the goat. The white head and horns of the animal appeared in the dark space of the half-open door, touched by the light of the flickering candle, and began to move. Horpyna, at sight of it, was startled, and screamed.
"Well, well!" cried the widow, "here is a nurse."
"Let us go back to the house," whispered Iermola. "Good-evening, mother; come to see me to-morrow, if you will be so good."
"I will, if only for the sake of curiosity," answered the old woman.
Then the good man, constantly fearing lest they should take his baby from him, hastened to leave the house. His heart felt lighter when he found himself in the street. Chwedko followed behind him, leading the goat, and both went on in silence toward the old ruined inn.
Iermola, however, was communing with himself all along the way.