put it in for you.”
She was going to take it, but Doútlof would not let her. He crumpled the notes together, pushed them in farther, and took his cap.
“Glad?”
“I hardly know what to say! It’s just …”
He did not finish, but waved his hand, smiled, and went out, almost crying.
The mistress rang.
“Well, have you given it?”
“I have.”
“Well, was he very glad?”
“He was just like a madman.”
“Ah! call him. I want to ask him how he found it. Call him in here; I can’t come out.”
Dounyásha ran out and found the peasant in the passage. He was still bareheaded, and had drawn out his purse, and was stooping untying its strings, while he held the money between his teeth. Perhaps he imagined that as long as the money was not in his purse it was not his. When Dounyásha called him he grew frightened.
“What is it, Avdótya … Avdótya Nikoláyevna? Does she wish to take it back? Couldn’t you say a word for me? … Now, really, and I’d bring you some nice honey.”
“Indeed! Much you ever brought!”