frivolity with the serious business of hunting.
“Good morning, Uncle! We are going too!” shouted Pétya.
“Good morning, good morning! But don’t go overriding the hounds,” said “Uncle” sternly.
“Nikólenka, what a fine dog Truníla is! He knew me,” said Natásha, referring to her favorite hound.
“In the first place, Truníla is not a ‘dog,’ but a harrier,” thought Nikoláy, and looked sternly at his sister, trying to make her feel the distance that ought to separate them at that moment. Natásha understood it.
“You mustn’t think we’ll be in anyone’s way, Uncle,” she said. “We’ll go to our places and won’t budge.”
“A good thing too, little countess,” said “Uncle,” “only mind you don’t fall off your horse,” he added, “because—that’s it, come on!—you’ve nothing to hold on to.”
The oasis of the Otrádnoe covert came in sight a few