Sitting on the floor, the Little Russian spread his legs around the samovar, and regarded Pavel. The mother stood at the door, and fixed a sad, affectionate gaze at Andrey's long, bent neck and the round back of his head. He threw his body back, supporting himself with his hands on the floor, looked at the mother and at the son with his slightly reddened and blinking eyes, and said in a low, hearty voice:
"You are good people, yes, you are!"
Pavel bent down and grasped his hand.
"Don't pull my hand," said the Little Russian gruffly. "You'll let go and I'll fall. Go away!"
"Why are you so shy?" the mother said pensively. "You'd better embrace and kiss. Press hard, hard!"
"Do you want to?" asked Pavel softly.
"We—ell, why not?" answered the Little Russian, rising.
Pavel dropped on his knees, and grasping each other firmly, they sank for a moment into each other's embrace—two bodies and one soul passionately and evenly burning with a profound feeling of friendship.
Tears ran down the mother's face, but this time they were easy tears. Drying them she said in embarrassment:
"A woman likes to cry. She cries when she is in sorrow; she cries when she is in joy!"