“Grandma, a dreadful old man wants to see you.”

Lukérya looked out at the door.

“There is a pilgrim of some kind, a man⁠ ⁠…”

Praskóvya Mikháylovna rubbed her thin elbows against one another, wiped her hands on her apron and went upstairs to get a five-kopeck piece 299 out of her purse for him, but remembering that she had nothing less than a ten-kopeck piece she decided to give him some bread instead. She returned to the cupboard, but suddenly blushed at the thought of having grudged the ten-kopeck piece, and telling Lukérya to cut a slice of bread, went upstairs again to fetch it. “It serves you right,” she said to herself. “You must now give twice over.”

She gave both the bread and the money to the pilgrim, and when doing so⁠—far from being proud of her generosity⁠—she excused herself for giving so little. The man had such an imposing appearance.