"Indeed it is cold," repeated the girl. "I'm frozen through—ooh!"
"I'll warm up the samovar for you!" the mother said, bustling and solicitous. "Ready in a moment," she called from the kitchen.
Somehow it seemed to her she had known the girl long, and even loved her with the tender, compassionate love of a mother. She was glad to see her; and recalling her guest's bright blue eyes, she smiled contentedly, as she prepared the samovar and listened to the conversation in the room.
"Why so gloomy, Nakhodka?" asked the girl.
"The widow has good eyes," answered the Little Russian. "I was thinking maybe my mother has such eyes. You know, I keep thinking of her as alive."
"You said she was dead?"
"That's my adopted mother. I am speaking now of my real mother. It seems to me that perhaps she may be somewhere in Kiev begging alms and drinking whisky."
"Why do you think such awful things?"
"I don't know. And the policemen pick her up on the street drunk and beat her."
"Oh, you poor soul," thought the mother, and sighed.