I had not recognised him, but as soon as he spoke I knew him at once. He is a hardworking, good peasant who, as often happens, seems specially marked out for misfortune: first, two horses were stolen from him, then his house burnt down, and then his wife died. I had not seen Prokófey for a long time, and remembered him as a bright red-haired man of medium height; whereas he was now not red, but quite grey-haired, and small.

“Ah, Prokófey, it’s you!” I said. “I was asking whose son that fine fellow is⁠—that one who has just spoken to Alexander?”

“That one?” Prokófey replied, pointing with a motion of his head to the tall lad. He shook his head and mumbled something I did not understand.

“I’m asking whose son the lad is?” I repeated, and turned to look at Prokófey.

His face was puckered, and his jaw trembled.

“He’s mine!” he muttered, and, turning away and hiding his face in his hand, began to whimper like a child.