"The people down there are sorry they can't read," she said to Andrey, "and here am I who could when I was young, but have forgotten."
"Learn over again, then," suggested the Little Russian.
"At my age? What do you want to make fun of me for?"
Andrey, however, took a book from the shelf and pointing with the tip of a knife at a letter on the cover, asked: "What's this?"
"R," she answered, laughing.
"And this?"
"A."
She felt awkward, hurt, and offended. It seemed to her that Andrey's eyes were laughing at her, and she avoided their look. But his voice sounded soft and calm in her ears. She looked askance at his face, once, and a second time. It was earnest and serious.
"Do you really wish to teach me to read?" she asked with an involuntary smile.
"Why not?" he responded. "Try! If you once knew how to read, it will come back to you easily. 'If no miracle it's no ill, and if a miracle better still!'"