Halfway through the village Vasíli Andréevich turned the horse towards a large double-fronted brick house and stopped at the porch.

Nikíta went to the lighted snow-covered window, in the rays of which flying snowflakes glittered, and knocked at it with his whip.

“Who is there?” a voice replied to his knock.

“From Krestý, the Brekhunóvs, dear fellow,” answered Nikíta. “Just come out for a minute.”

Someone moved from the window, and a minute or two later there was the sound of the passage door as it came unstuck, then the latch of the outside door clicked and a tall white-bearded peasant, with a sheepskin coat thrown over his white holiday shirt, pushed his way out holding the door firmly against the wind, followed by a lad in a red shirt and high leather boots.

“Is that you, Andréevich?” asked the old man.