Those children were now all provided for. That is to say, Vania had finished his schooling and entered Government service, his sister had married the manager of a Government office, and little Andrei had been committed to the care of Schtoltz and his wife, who looked upon him as a member of their own family. Never for a moment did Agafia Matvievna mentally compare his lot, or place it on a level with, that of her first children--although, unconsciously it may be, she allotted them all an equal place in her heart. In her opinion the little Andrei’s upbringing, mode of life, and future career stood divided by an immeasurable gulf from the fortunes of Vania and his sister. “What are _they?_” she would say to herself when she called to see Andrei. “They are children born of the people, whereas this one was born a young _barin_.” Then she would caress the boy, if not with actual timidity, at all events with a certain touch of caution, and add to herself with something like respect: “What a white skin he has! ’Tis almost transparent. And what tiny hands and feet, too, and what silky hair! He is just like his dead father.” Consequently she was the more ready to accede to Schtoltz’s request when he asked her that he (Schtoltz) should educate the youngster; since she felt sure that Schtoltz’s household was far more the lad’s proper place than was her own establishment, where he would have been thrown among her grimy young nephews. Clad in black, she would glide like a shadow from room to room of the house--opening and shutting cupboards, sewing, making lace, but doing everything quietly, and without the least sign of energy. When spoken to, she would reply as though to do so were an effort. Moreover, her eyes no longer glanced swiftly from object to object, as they had done in the old days: rather, they remained fixed in a sort of ever concentrated gaze. Probably they had assumed that gaze during the hour when she had stood looking at her dead husband’s face. That the light of her life was fast flickering before going out, that God had breathed His breath into her existence and taken it away again, and that her sun had shone brilliantly and was setting for ever, she clearly understood. Yes, that sun was setting for ever, but not before she had learnt the reason why she had been given life, and the fact that she had not lived in vain. Greatly she had loved, and to the full: she had loved _Oblomov_ as a lover, as a husband, and as a _barin_. But around her there was no one to comprehend this; wherefore she kept her grief the more closely locked, in her own bosom.