At last the woman left him in peace, and while he was wiping his lips she looked him over with that quick sort of glance which seemed to photograph one. His short nose with its indication of a future little hump, his thick, unchildish brows over dark eyes, and the general appearance of stern seriousness, recalled some one to her, and she began to cry. Even her weeping was unlike mama’s: the face remained immovable while the tears quickly rolled down one after the other--before one had time to fall another was already chasing after it. Her tears ceased as suddenly as they had commenced, and she asked: “Valichka, do you know me?”--“No.” “I called to see you. Twice I called to see you.” Perhaps she had called upon him, perhaps she had called twice, but how should Valia know of it? With her questions she only hindered him from reading. “I am your mama, Valia!” said the woman. Valia looked around in astonishment to find his mama, but she was no longer in the room. “Why, can there be two mamas?” he asked. “What nonsense you are telling me.” The woman laughed, but this laugh did not please Valia; it was evident that the woman did not wish to laugh at all, and did it purposely to fool him. For some moments they were both silent. “And what book is it you are reading?” “About Prince Bova,” Valia informed her with serious self-esteem and an evident respect for the big book. “Ach, it must be very interesting! Tell me, please!” the woman asked with an ingratiating smile. And once more something unnatural and false sounded in this voice, which tried to be soft and round like the voice of his mother, but remained sharp and prickly. The same insincerity appeared also in all the movements of the woman; she turned on her chair and even stretched out her neck with a manner as if preparing for a long and attentive listening; and when Valia reluctantly began the story, she immediately retired within herself, like a dark-lantern on which the cover is suddenly thrown. Valia felt the offense toward himself and Prince Bova, but, wishing to be polite, he quickly finished the story and added: “That is all.” “Well, good-by, my dear, my dove!” said the strange woman, and once more pressed her lips to Valia’s face. “I shall soon call again. Will you be glad?” “Yes, come please,” politely replied Valia, and to get rid of her more quickly he added: “I will be very glad.” The visitor left him, but hardly had Valia found in the book again the word at which he had been interrupted, when mama entered, looked at him, and she also began to weep. He could easily understand why the other woman should have wept; she must have been sorry that she was so unpleasant and tiresome--but why should his mama weep? “Listen, mama,” he said musingly, “how that woman bored me! She says that she is my mama. Why, could there be two mamas to one boy?” “No, baby, there could not; but she speaks the truth; she is your mother.” “And what are you, then?” “I am your auntie.”