the children. He approached with a little smile, bent down and kissed her on the head. The child, not expecting this attack, uttered a cry of alarm.
"What are you doing here, sweet child?" he asked in a whisper, looking round and patting the girl's cheek.
"We are playing."
"Ah! With him?" Yulian Mastakovitch looked askance at the boy. "You had better go into the drawing-room, my dear," he said to him.
The boy looked at him open-eyed and did not utter a word. Yulian Mastakovitch looked round him again, and again bent down to the little girl.
"And what is this you've got—a dolly, dear child?" he asked.
"Yes, a dolly," answered the child, frowning and a little shy.
"A dolly . . . and do you know, dear child, what your dolly is made of?"
"I don't know . . ." the child answered in a whisper, hanging her head.
"It's made of rags, darling. You had better go into the drawing-room to your playmates, boy," said Yulian Mastakovitch, looking sternly at the boy. The boy and girl frowned and clutched at each other. They did not want to be separated.
"And do you know why they gave you that doll?" asked Yulian Mastakovitch, dropping his voice to a softer and softer tone.
"I don't know."
"Because you have been a sweet and well-behaved child all the week."
At this point Yulian Mastakovitch, more excited than ever, speaking in most dulcet tones, asked at last, in a hardly audible voice choked with emotion and impatience—
"And will you love me, dear little girl, when I come and see your papa and mamma?"
Saying this, Yulian Mastakovitch tried once more to kiss
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