"I'm going to take them to Khotkov, after Uncle Pavel's death, and we'll settle down comfortably there."
"So you're still at your blabbing," a voice at the door suddenly broke in.
Engrossed in conversation nobody had heard Yudushka steal up "like a thief in the night." He was all in tears, his head was bowed, his face pale, his hands crossed on his breast, his lips mumbling in prayer. For a few moments his eyes sought the ikons, then found them and for a brief while he prayed.
"He's very ill. Ah, how ill he is!" he finally exclaimed, embracing his mother dear.
"Is he?"
"Very, very ill, dear heart. And do you recollect what a strong fellow he was?"
"Well, he was never exactly strong. I can't remember that, somehow."
"Ah no, mother dear, don't say that. He was, always. I remember perfectly when he left the cadets corps how well shaped he was, broad shouldered, glowing with health. Yes, yes, mother dear, that's how it is. We're all in God's hands. To-day we're strong, in the best of health, we want to enjoy life to have a good meal, and tomorrow....
He shrugged his shoulders and assumed deep emotion.
"Did he say anything at least?"