“He’s always teaching the youngsters, Mother. But he writes that he’ll come home for the holidays,” said the cornet’s wife. “Yes, he’s a clever man, one sees; it all comes useful.” “Of course it does.” “And my Lukáshka is at the cordon; they won’t let him come home,” said the visitor, though the cornet’s wife had known all this long ago. She wanted to talk about her Lukáshka whom she had lately fitted out for service in the Cossack regiment, and whom she wished to marry to the cornet’s daughter, Maryánka. “So he’s at the cordon?” “He is, Mother. He’s not been home since last holidays. The other day I sent him some shirts by Fómushkin. He says he’s all right, and that his superiors are satisfied. He says they are looking out for _abreks_ again. Lukáshka is quite happy, he says.” “Ah well, thank God,” said the cornet’s wife. “‘Snatcher’ is certainly the only word for him.” Lukáshka was surnamed “the Snatcher” because of his bravery in snatching a boy from a watery grave, and the cornet’s wife alluded to this, wishing in her turn to say something agreeable to Lukáshka’s mother. “I thank God, Mother, that he’s a good son! He’s a fine fellow, everyone praises him,” says Lukáshka’s mother. “All I wish is to get him married; then I could die in peace.” “Well, aren’t there plenty of young women in the village?” answered the cornet’s wife slyly as she carefully replaced the lid of the matchbox with her horny hands. “Plenty, Mother, plenty,” remarked Lukáshka’s mother, shaking her head. “There’s your girl now, your Maryánka—that’s the sort of girl! You’d have to search through the whole place to find such another!” The cornet’s wife knows what Lukáshka’s mother is after, but though she believes him to be a good Cossack she hangs back: first because she is a cornet’s wife and rich, while Lukáshka is the son of a simple Cossack and fatherless, secondly because she does not want to part with her daughter yet, but chiefly because propriety demands it. “Well, when Maryánka grows up she’ll be marriageable too,” she answers soberly and modestly. “I’ll send the matchmakers to you—I’ll send them! Only let me get the vineyard done and then we’ll come and make our bows to you,” says Lukáshka’s mother. “And we’ll make our bows to Elias Vasílich too.” “Elias, indeed!” says the cornet’s wife proudly. “It’s to me you must speak! All in its own good time.” Lukáshka’s mother sees by the stern face of the cornet’s wife that it is not the time to say anything more just now, so she lights her rag with the match and says, rising: “Don’t refuse us, think of my words. I’ll go, it is time to light the fire.” As she crosses the road swinging the burning rag, she meets Maryánka, who bows. “Ah, she’s a regular queen, a splendid worker, that girl!” she thinks, looking at the beautiful maiden. “What need for her to grow any more? It’s time she was married and to a good home; married to Lukáshka!”