“He is evidently an old man now and broken,” thought Avdeitch to himself. “He is not strong enough to clear away snow. Would he like some tea, I wonder? That reminds me that the samovar must be ready now.”
He made fast his awl in his work and got up. Placing the samovar on the table, he brewed the tea, and then tapped with his finger on the window-pane. Stepanitch turned round and approached. Avdeitch beckoned to him, and then went to open the door.
“Come in and warm yourself,” he said. “You must be frozen.”
“Christ requite you!” answered Stepanitch. “Yes, my bones are almost cracking.”
He came in, shook the snow off himself, and, though tottering on his feet, took pains to wipe them carefully, that he might not dirty the floor.
“Nay, do not trouble about that,” said Avdeitch. “I will wipe your boots myself. It is part of my business in this trade. Come you here and sit down, and we will empty this tea-pot together.”
He poured out two tumblerfuls, and offered one to his guest; after which he emptied his own into the saucer, and blew upon it to cool it. Stepanitch drank his tumblerful, turned the glass upside down, placed his crust upon it, and thanked his host kindly. But it was plain that he wanted another one.
“You must drink some more,” said Avdeitch, and refilled his guest’s tumbler and his own. Yet, in spite of himself, he had no sooner drunk his tea than he found himself looking out into the street again.
“Are you expecting anyone?” asked his guest.
“Am—am I expecting anyone? Well, to tell the truth, yes. That is to say, I am, and I am not. The fact is that some words have got fixed in my memory. Whether it was a vision or not I cannot tell, but at all events, my old friend, I was reading in the Gospels last night about Our Little Father Christ, and how He walked this earth and suffered. You have heard of Him, have you not?”