YERMOLAÏ AND THE MILLER'S WIFE
elbows on her knees, and had her face in her hands. Yermolaï was sitting with his back to me, and thrusting sticks into the fire.
'They've the cattle-plague again at Zheltonhiny' the miller's wife was saying; 'father Ivan's two cows are dead—Lord have mercy on them!'
'And how are your pigs doing?' asked Yermolaï, after a brief pause.
'They're alive.'
'You ought to make me a present of a sucking pig,'
The miller's wife was silent for a while, then she sighed.
'Who is it you're with?' she asked.
'A gentleman from Kostomarovo.'
Yermolaï threw a few pine twigs on the fire; they all caught fire at once, and a thick white smoke came puffing into his face.
'Why didn't your husband let us into the cottage?'
'He's afraid.'
'Afraid! the fat old tub! Arina Timofyevna, my darling, bring me a little glass of spirits.'
The miller's wife rose and vanished into the darkness. Yermolaï began to sing in an under-tone—
'When I went to see my sweetheart,
I wore out all my shoes.'
Arina returned with a small flask and a glass. Yermolaï got up, crossed himself, and drank it off at a draught. 'Good!' was his comment.
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