"What did you do that for? It is not worth while, my lad. So that you may remember? No; you just give it up. What a boy you are! Now you will give me what you have written, won't you?" He tried long and earnestly to persuade me to either give him the notebook, or to burn it, and then he began to whisper angrily with the shopman. As we were going home, the latter said to me: "You have been taking notes? That has got to be' stopped! Do you hear? Only detectives do that sort of thing!" Then I asked incautiously: "And what about Sitanov? He also takes notes." "Also. That long fool?" He was silent for a long time, and then with unusual gentleness he said: "Listen; if you show me your note-book and Sitanov's, too, I will give you half a ruble! Only do it on the quiet, so that Sitanov does not see." No doubt he thought that I would carry out his wish, and without saying another word, he ran in front of me on his short legs. When I reached the house, I told Sitanov what the shopman had proposed to me. Evgen frowned. "You have been chattering purposely. Now he will give some one instructions to steal both our notebooks. Give me yours--I will hide it. And he will turn you out before long--you see!" I was convinced of that, too, and resolved to leave as soon as grandmother returned to the town. She had been living at Balakhania all the winter, invited by some one to teach young girls to make lace. Grandfather was again living in Kunavin Street, but I did not visit him, and when he came to the town, he never came to see me. One day we ran into each other in the street. He was walking along in a heavy racoon pelisse, importantly and slowly. I said "How do you do" to him. He lifted his hands to shade his eyes, looked at me from under them, and then said thoughtfully: "Oh, it is you; you are an image-painter now. Yes, yes; all right; get along with you." Pushing me out of his way, he continued his walk, slowly and importantly. I saw grandmother seldom. She worked unweariedly to feed grandfather, who was suffering from the malady of old age--senile weakness--and had also taken upon herself the care of my uncle's children. The one who caused her the most worry was Sascha, Mikhail's son, a handsome lad, dreamy and book-loving. He worked in a dyer's shop, frequently changed his employers, and in the intervals threw himself on grandmother's shoulders, calmly waiting until she should find him another place. She had Sascha's sister on her shoulders, too. She had made an unfortunate marriage with a drunken workman, who beat her and turned her out of his house. Every time I met grandmother, I was more consciously charmed by her personality; but I felt already that that beautiful soul, blinded by fanciful tales, was not capable of seeing, could not understand a revelation of the bitter reality of life, and my disquietude and restlessness were strange to her. "You must have patience, Olesha!"