"I was sorry for her," whispered Yevsey.
The blacksmith pushed him aside lightly.
"You shan't talk to her any more, do you hear? Never! Don't worry, Aunt Praskovya, we'll put an end to this friendship."
"You ought to give him a whipping," said the mother. "My little girl lived quietly, she wasn't a bit of a bother to anybody, and now someone has to be with her all the time."
After Praskovya had left, the smith without saying anything led Yevsey by the hand into the yard.
"Now talk sensibly. Why did you frighten the little girl?"
The uncle's voice was not loud, but it was stern. Yevsey became frightened, and quickly began to justify himself, stuttering over his words.
"I didn't frighten her—I did it just—just—she kept complaining—she said I see only black, but for you everything—so I began to tell her everything is black to keep her from being envious. I didn't mean to frighten her at all."
Yevsey broke into sobs, feeling himself wronged. Uncle Piotr smiled.
"You fool! You should have remembered that she's been blind only three years. She wasn't born blind. She lost her sight after she had the smallpox. So she recollects what things are really bright. Oh, what a stupid fellow!"