I have more than enough."

Suddenly he took me up in his arms, shaking me gently.

"You will be a strong man, you are so light and slim, and your bones are so firm. I say, why don't you learn to play on the guitar? Ask Uncle Jaakov! But you are too small yet, that's a pity! You 're little, but you have a temper of your own! You don't like your grandfather much, do you?"

"I don't know."

"I don't like any of the Kashmirins except your grandmother. Let the devil like them!"

"What about me?"

"You? You are not a Kashmirin. You are a Pyeshkov. . . . That's different blood--a different stock altogether."

Suddenly he gave me a violent squeeze.

"Ah!" he almost groaned. "If only I had a good voice for singing! Good Lord! what a stir I should make in the world! . . . Run away now, old chap. I must get on with my work."

He set me down on the floor, put a handful of fine nails into his mouth, and began to stretch and nail damp breadths of black material on a large square board.

His end came very soon after this.

It happened thus. Leaning up against a partition by the gate in the yard was placed a large oaken cross with stout, knotty arms. It had been there a long time. I had noticed it in the early days of my life in the house, when it had been new and yellow, but now it was blackened by the autumn rains. It gave forth the bitter odor of barked oak, and it was in the way in the crowded, dirty yard.

Uncle Jaakov had bought it to place over the grave of his wife, and had made a vow to carry it on his shoulders to the cemetery on the anniversary of her death, which fell on a Saturday at the beginning of winter.

It was frosty and windy and there had been a fall of snow. Grandfather and grandmother, with the three grandchildren, had gone early to the cemetery to hear the requiem; I was left at home as a punishment for some fault.

My uncles, dressed alike in short black fur coats, lifted the cross from the ground and stood under its arms. Gregory and some men not belonging to the yard raised the heavy beams with difficulty, and placed the cross on the broad shoulders of Tsiganok. He tottered, and his legs seemed to give way.

"Are you strong enough to carry it'?" asked Gregory.

"I don't know. It seems heavy."

"Open the gate, you blind devil!" cried Uncle Michael angrily.

And Uncle Jaakov said:

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Vanka. You are stronger than the two of us together."

But Gregory, throwing open the gate, persisted in advising Ivan:

"Take care you don't break down! Go, and may God be with you!"

"Bald-headed fool!" cried Uncle Michael, from the street.

All the people in the yard, meanwhile, laughed and talked loudly, as if they were glad to get rid of the cross.

Gregory Ivanovitch took my hand and led me to the workshop, saying kindly:

"Perhaps, under the circumstances, grandfather won't thrash you to-day."

He sat me on a pile of woolens ready for dyeing, carefully wrapping them round me as high as my shoulders; and inhaling the vapor which rose from the vats, he said thoughtfully:

"I have known your grandfather for thirty-seven years, my dear. I saw his business at its commencement, and I shall see the end of it. We were friends then--in fact, we started and planned out the business together. He is a clever man, is your grandfather! He meant to be master, but I did not know it. However, God is more clever than any of us. He has only to smile and the wisest man will blink like a fool. You don't understand yet all that is said and done, but you must learn to understand everything. An orphan's life is a hard one. Your father, Maxim Savatyevitch, was a trump.