“Twelve years have I lived in this house,” went on Karl, lifting his eyes and his snuff-box towards the ceiling, “and before God I can say that I have loved them, and worked for them, even more than if they had been my own children. You recollect, Nicola, when Woloda had the fever? You recollect how, for nine days and nights, I never closed my eyes as I sat beside his bed?

Yes, at that time I was ‘the dear, good Karl Ivanitch’ — I was wanted then; but now” — and he smiled ironically — ”the children are growing up, and must go to study in earnest. Perhaps they never learnt anything with me, Nicola? Eh?”

“I am sure they did,” replied Nicola, laying his awl down and straightening a piece of thread with his hands.