“As if one was not sorry!⁠ ⁠… My own brother’s son!⁠ ⁠… One is not only sorry, but it seems they also make me out a villain towards him.⁠ ⁠… Whether it’s his wife⁠ ⁠… she’s a cunning little woman though she’s so young⁠ ⁠… that has put it into his head that we could afford to buy a substitute!⁠ ⁠… Anyhow, he’s reproaching me. But one does pity the lad!⁠ ⁠…”

“Ah! he’s a fine lad,” said the Elder.

“But I’m at the end of my tether with him! Tomorrow I shall let Ignát come, and his wife wanted to come too.”

“All right⁠—let them come,” said the Elder, rising and climbing on to the oven. “What is money? Money is dross!”

“If one had the money, who would grudge it?” muttered one of the tradesman’s men, lifting his head.

“Ah, money, money! It’s the cause of much sin,” replied Doútlof. “Nothing in the world is the cause of so much sin, and the Scriptures say so too.”