I should not have recognized grandmother. Her lips modestly compressed, her face changed out of knowledge, she set herself quietly on a bench near the door, keeping silence like a guilty creature, except when she answered her sister softly and submissively. This was torture to me, and I used to say angrily: "What are you sitting there for?" Winking at me kindly, she replied: "You be quiet. You are not master here.". "He is always meddling in matters which do not concern him, however we beat him or scold him," and the mistress was launched on her complaints. She often asked her sister spitefully: "Well, Akulina, so you are living like a beggar?" "That is a misfortune." "It is no misfortune where there is no shame." "They say that Christ also lived on charity." "Blockheads say so, and heretics, and you, old fool, listen to them! Christ was no beggar, but the Son of God. He will come, it is said, in glory, to judge the quick and dead--and dead, mind you. You will not be able to hide yourself from Him, Matushka, although you may be burned to ashes. He is punishing you and Vassili now for your pride, and on my account, because I asked help from you when you were rich." "And I helped you as much as it was in my power to do," answered grandmother, calmly, "and God will pay us back, you know." "It was little enough you did, little enough." Grandmother was bored and worried by her sister's untiring tongue. I listened to her squeaky voice and wondered how grandmother could put up with it. In that moment I did not love her. The young mistress came out of her room and nodded affably to grandmother. "Come into the dining-room. It is all right; come along!" The master would receive grandmother joyfully. "Ah, Akulina, wisest of all, how are you? Is old man Kashirin still alive?" And grandmother would give him her most cordial smile. "Are you still working your hardest?" "Yes; always working, like a convict." Grandmother conversed with him affectionately and well, but in the tone of a senior. Sometimes he called my mother to mind. "Ye-es, Varvara Vassilievna. What a woman! A heroine, eh?" His wife turned to grandmother and put in: "Do you remember my giving her that cloak--black silk trimmed with jet?" "Of course I do." "It was quite a good one." "Ye-es," muttered the master, "a cloak, a palm; and life is a trickster."[1] [Footnote 1: A play on the words "_tal'ma,_ cloak; _pal'ma,_ palm; _shelma,_ trickster.] "What are you talking about?" asked his wife, suspiciously. "I? Oh, nothing in particular. Happy days and good people soon pass away." "I don't know what is the matter with you," said my mistress, uneasily. Then grandmother was taken to see the new baby, and while I was clearing away the dirty cups and saucers from the table the master said to me: "She is a good old woman, that grandmother of yours."