"Then we old people ought to teach them," said Avdyéich. "That is what I say," said the old woman. "I myself had seven of them,--but only one daughter is left now." And the old woman began to tell where and how she was living with her daughter, and how many grandchildren she had. "My strength is waning," she said, "but still I work. I am sorry for my grandchildren, and they are such nice children,--nobody else meets me the way they do. Aksyútka will not go to anybody from me. 'Granny, granny dear, darling!'" And the old woman melted with tenderness. "Of course, he is but a child,--God be with him!" the old woman said about the boy. She wanted to lift the bag on her shoulders, when the boy jumped up to her, and said: "Let me carry it, granny! I am going that way." The old woman shook her head and threw the bag on the boy's shoulders. They walked together down the street. The old woman had forgotten to ask Avdyéich to pay her for the apple. Avdyéich stood awhile, looking at them and hearing them talk as they walked along. When they disappeared from sight, he returned to his room. He found his glasses on the staircase,--they were not broken,--and he picked up his awl and again sat down to work. He worked for awhile; he could not find the holes with the bristle, when he looked up and saw the lampman lighting the lamps. "It is evidently time to strike a light," he thought, and he got up and fixed the lamp and hung it on the hook, and sat down again to work. He finished a boot: he turned it around and looked at it, and he saw that it was well done. He put down his tool, swept up the clippings, put away the bristles and the remnants and the awls, took the lamp and put it on the table, and fetched the Gospel from the shelf. He wanted to open the book where he had marked it the day before with a morocco clipping, but he opened it in another place. And just as he went to open the Gospel, he thought of his dream of the night before. And just as he thought of it, it appeared to him as though something were moving and stepping behind him. He looked around, and, indeed, it looked as though people were standing in the dark corner, but he could not make out who they were. And a voice whispered to him: "Martýn, oh, Martýn, have you not recognized me?" "Whom?" asked Avdyéich. "Me," said the voice. "It is I." And out of the dark corner came Stepánych, and he smiled and vanished like a cloud and was no more. "And it is I," said a voice. And out of the dark corner came the woman with the babe, and the woman smiled and the child laughed, and they, too, disappeared. "And it is I," said a voice. And out came the old woman and the boy with the apple, and both smiled and vanished. And joy fell on Avdyéich's heart, and he made the sign of the cross, put on his glasses, and began to read the Gospel, there where he had opened it. And at the top of the page he read: