.'"

Her words troubled me. Why was it wrong to ask questions? The words "hallowed be Thy name" acquired a mysterious significance in my mind, and I purposely mixed them up in every possible way.

But my aunt, pale and almost exhausted, patiently cleared her throat, which was always husky, and said, "No, that is not right. Just say 'hallowed be Thy name.' It is plain enough." "x But my aunt, pale and almost exhausted, patiently irritated me, and hindered me from remembering the prayer.

One day my grandfather inquired:

"Well, Oleysha, what have you been doing to-day? Playing? The bruises on your forehead told me as much. Bruises are got cheaply. And how about 'Our Father'? Have you learnt it?"

"He has a very bad memory," said my aunt softly.

Grandfather smiled as if he were glad, lifting his sandy eyebrows. "And what of it? He must be whipped; that's all."

And again he turned to me.

"Did your father ever whip you?"

As I did not know what he was talking about, I was silent, but my mother replied:

"No, Maxim never beat him, and what is more, forbade me to do so."

"And why, may I ask?"

"He said that beating is not education."

"He was a fool about everything--that Maxim. May God forgive me for speaking so of the dead!" exclaimed grandfather distinctly and angrily. He saw at once that these words enraged me. "What is that sullen face for?" he asked. "Ugh! . . . Tou! . . ." And smoothing down his reddish, silverstreaked hair, he added: "And this very Saturday I am going to give Sascha a hiding."

"What is a hiding?" I asked.

They all laughed, and grandfather said: "Wait a bit, and you shall see."

In secret I pondered over the word "hiding." Apparently it had the same meaning as to whip and beat. I had seen people beat horses, dogs and cats, and in Astrakhan the soldiers used to beat the Persians; but I had never before seen any one beat little children. Yet here my uncles hit their own children over the head and shoulders, and they bore it without resentment, merely rubbing the injured part; and if I asked them whether they were hurt, they always answered bravely:

"No, not a bit."

Then there was the famous story of the thimble. In the evenings, from tea-time to supper-time, my uncles and the head workman used to sew portions of dyed material into one piece, to which they affixed tickets. Wishing to play a trick on half-blind Gregory, Uncle Michael had told his nine-year-old nephew to make his thimble red-hot in the candle-flame. Sascha heated the thimble in the snuffers, made it absolutely red-hot, and contriving, without attracting attention, to place it close to Gregory's hand, hid himself by the stove; but as luck would have it, grandfather himself came in at that very moment and, sitting down to work, slipped his finger into the red-hot thimble.

Hearing the tumult, I ran into the kitchen, and I shall never forget how funny grandfather looked nursing his burnt finger as he jumped about and shrieked:

"Where is the villain who played this trick?"

Uncle Michael, doubled up under the table, snatched up the thimble and blew upon it; Gregory unconcernedly went on sewing, while the shadows played on his enormous bald patch. Then Uncle Jaakov rushed in, and, hiding himself in the corner by the stove, stood there quietly laughing; grandmother busied herself with grating up raw potatoes.

"Sascha Jaakov did it!" suddenly exclaimed Uncle Michael.

"Liar!" cried Jaakov, darting out from behind the stove.

But his son, from one of the comers, wept and wailed:

"Papa! don't believe him. He showed me how to do it himself."

My uncles began to abuse each other, but grandfather all at once grew calm, put a poultice of grated potatoes on his finger, and silently went out, taking me with him.

They all said that Uncle Michael was to blame. I asked naturally if he would be whipped, or get a hiding.

"He ought to," answered grandfather, with a sidelong glance at me.

Uncle Michael, striking his hand upon the table, bawled at my mother: "Varvara, make your pup hold his jaw before I knock his head off."

"Go on, then; try to lay your hands on him!" replied my mother. And no one said another word.

She had a gift of pushing people out of her way, brushing them aside as it were, and making them feel very small by a few brief words like these. It was perfectly clear to me that they were all afraid of her; x even grandfather spoke to her more quietly than he spoke to the others. It gave me great satisfaction to observe this, and in my pride I used to say openly to my cousins: "My mother is a match for all of them." And they did not deny it.

But the events which happened on Saturday diminished my respect for my mother.

By Saturday I also had had time to get into trouble. I was fascinated by the ease with which the grown-up people changed the color of different materials; they took something yellow, steeped it in black dye, and it came out dark blue. They laid a piece of gray stuff in reddish water and it was dyed mauve. It was quite simple, yet to me it was inexplicable. I longed to dye something myself, and I confided my desire to Sascha Yaakovitch, a thoughtful boy, always in favor with his elders, always good-natured, obliging, and ready to wait upon every one.

The adults praised him highly for his obedience and his cleverness, but grandfather looked on him with no favorable eye, and used to say:

"An artful beggar that!"

Thin and dark, with prominent, watchful eyes, Sascha Yaakov used to speak in a low, rapid voice, as if his words were choking him, and all the while he talked he glanced fearfully from side to side as if he were ready to run away and hide himself on the slightest pretext.