“Then Nikolay Semyonovitch, for whom I have such a respect, greatly disappointed me. He drew a very long face, and decided to send the child at once to the Foundling Home. I felt very sad. They lived frugally and had no children and Nikolay Semyonovitch was always glad of it. I carefully took the little Arina out of the basket and held her up under the arms. The basket had that sour, pungent odour characteristic of a small child which has not been washed for a long time. I opposed Nikolay Semyonovitch and suddenly announced that I would keep the child at my expense. In spite of his gentleness he protested with some severity, and, though he ended by joking, he adhered to his intention in regard to the foundling. I got my way, however. In the same block of buildings, but in a different wing, lived a very poor carpenter, an elderly man, given to drink, but his wife, a very healthy and still youngish woman, had only just lost a baby, and what is more, the only child she had had in eight years of marriage, also a girl, and by a strange piece of luck also called Arina. I call it good luck, because while we were arguing in the kitchen, the woman, hearing of what had happened, ran in to look at the child, and when she learned that it was called Arina, she was greatly touched. She still had milk, and unfastening her dress, she put the baby to her breast. I began persuading her to take the child home with her, saying I would pay for it every month. She was afraid her husband would not allow it, but she took it for the night. Next morning, her husband consented to her keeping it for eight roubles a month, and I immediately paid him for the first month in advance. He at once spent the money on drink. Nikolay Semyonovitch, still with a strange smile, agreed to guarantee that the money would be paid regularly every month. I would have given my sixty roubles into Nikolay Semyonovitch’s keeping as security, but he did not take it. He knew, however, that I had the money, and trusted me. Our momentary quarrel was smoothed over by this delicacy on his part. Marie Ivanovna said nothing, but wondered at my undertaking such a responsibility. I particularly appreciated their delicacy in refraining from the slightest jest at my expense, but on the contrary, taking the matter with proper seriousness. I used to run over to the carpenter’s wife three times a day, and at the end of the week I slipped an extra three roubles into her hand without her husband’s knowledge. For another three I bought a little quilt and swaddling clothes. But ten days later little Arina fell ill. I called in a doctor at once, he wrote a prescription, and we were up all night tormenting the mite with horrid medicine. Next day he declared that he had been sent for too late, and answered my entreaties--which I fancy were more like reproaches--by saying with majestic evasiveness: ‘I am not God.’ The baby’s little tongue and lips and whole mouth were