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 "What is mamma doing?" he asked, caressing his daughter's smooth, soft neck. "How are you?" he added, smiling at the boy, who stood saluting him. He acknowledged he had less love for the little boy, yet he tried to be impartial. But the boy felt the difference, and did not smile back in reply to his father's chilling smile.

"Mamma? She's up," answered the little girl.

Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed. "Of course she has spent another sleepless night," he said to himself.

"Well, is she cheerful?"

The little girl knew that there was trouble between her father and her mother, and that her mother could not be cheerful, and that her father ought to know it, and that he was dissembling when he questioned her so lightly. And she blushed for her father. He instantly perceived it and also turned red.

"I don't know," she said; "she told me that we were not to have lessons this morning but were to go with Miss Hull over to grandmother's."

"Well, then, run along, Tanchurotchka moya.—Oh, yes, wait," said he, still detaining her and smoothing her delicate little hand.

He took down from the mantelpiece a box of candy which he had placed there the day before, and gave her two pieces, selecting her favorite chocolate and vanilla.

"For Grisha?" she asked, pointing to the chocolate.

"Yes, yes;" and still smoothing her soft shoulder he kissed her on the neck and hair, and let her go.

"The carriage is at the door," said Matve, and he added, "A woman is here—a petitioner."

"Has she been here long?" demanded Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"Half an hour."

"How many times have you been told to announce visitors instantly?"

"I had to get your coffee ready," replied Matve in his kind, rough voice, at which it was impossible to take offense.