"Nilovna, you're evidently tired. Permit me—I——"
The peasant pulled his feet uneasily.
"That'll do;" said the mother, rising. "Well, Ignaty, now wash yourself."
The young man arose, shifted his feet about, and stepped firmly on the floor.
"They seem like new feet. Thank you! Many, many thanks!"
He drew a wry face, his lips trembled, and his eyes reddened. After a pause, during which he regarded the basin of black water, he whispered softly:
"I don't even know how to thank you!"
Then they sat down to the table to drink tea. And Ignaty soberly began:
"I was the distributer of literature, a very strong fellow at walking. Uncle Mikhaïl gave me the job. 'Distribute!' says he; 'and if you get caught you're alone.'"
"Do many people read?" asked Nikolay.