The boy glanced at the old stranger and ran after the colt that was frisking in the mud. A dog as black as old Wolfey followed the boy.

“Can it be Wolfey?” thought he, and remembered that Wolfey would have been twenty by now. He came to the porch, ascended with difficulty the steps on which he had sat that night swallowing snow from the handrail, and opened the door leading into the passage.

“Where are you shoving to, without leave?” came a woman’s voice from inside. He recognized her voice. And then she herself, a withered, sinewy, wrinkled woman, looked out of the room. Kornéy had expected to see the young and handsome Martha, who had offended him so deeply. He hated her , and wished to reproach her, but now this old woman appeared in her stead.

“If it’s alms you want, ask at the window,” she said, in a shrill, harsh voice.

“No, it’s not alms,” said Kornéy.