“What are you doing here, sweet child?” he asked in a whisper, glancing around him, and pinching the little girl’s cheek. “We are playing....” “Ah! With him?” Julian Mastakovich looked askew at the boy. “Go into the next room, like a nice little boy,” he said to him. The boy was silent and gazed at him with perturbed eyes. Julian Mastakovich looked around once more and bent over the little girl. “And what have you, sweet child, a doll?” he asked. “Yes, a doll,” answered the little girl, frowning, and quailing visibly. “A doll.... And do you know, sweet child, what the doll is made of?” “I don’t know,” answered the little girl in a whisper, lowering her head. “Of rags, my darling.... And you, my boy, you had better go into the other room to your fellows,” said Julian Mastakovich, as he looked severely at the youngster. The girl and the boy frowned and caught hold of each other. They did not wish to part. “And do you know why they gave you this doll?” asked Julian Mastakovich, lowering his voice more and more. “I don’t know.” “Because you have been a lovely and well-behaved child the entire week.” At this juncture, Julian Mastakovich, agitated to the utmost, looked round and, lowering his tone to a whisper, asked finally in an almost inaudible voice, dying away more and more from agitation and impatience: “And will you love me, sweet girlie, when I shall come as a guest to your papa and mamma?” Having said this, Julian Mastakovich made one more effort to kiss the lovely child; but the red-haired boy, quick to see that she was at the point of tears, seized her hands and, out of deep sympathy for her, began to whimper. Julian Mastakovich became quite angry. “Begone, begone from here, begone!” he said to the boy. “Begone into the other room! Begone to your own fellows!” “No, don’t go! Don’t go! _You_ had better go,” said the young girl, “but leave him alone, leave him alone!” She was almost in tears.