A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
The miller's wife sat down again on the tub.
'Well, Arina Timofyevna, are you still ill?'
'Yes.'
'What is it?'
'My cough troubles me at night.'
'The gentleman's asleep, it seems,' observed Yermolaï after a short silence. 'Don't go to a doctor, Arina; it will be worse if you do.'
'Well, I am not going.'
'But come and pay me a visit.'
Arina hung down her head dejectedly.
'I will drive my wife out for the occasion,' continued Yermolaï. 'Upon my word, I will.'
'You had better wake the gentleman, Yermolaï Petrovitch; you see, the potatoes are done.'
'Oh, let him snore,' observed my faithful servant indifferently; 'he's tired with walking, so he sleeps sound.'
I turned over in the hay. Yermolaï got up and came to me. 'The potatoes are ready; will you come and eat them?'
I came out of the outhouse; the miller's wife got up from the tub and was going away. I addressed her.
'Have you kept this mill long?'
'It's two years since I came on Trinity day.'
'And where does your husband come from?'
Arina had not caught my question.
'Where's your husband from?' repeated Yermolaï, raising his voice.
'From Byelev. He's a Byelev townsman.'
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