“I am left alone, alone, like Job. Oh Lord! What shall I do? Oh, alone! Am I not wise? Am I not clever? But life has outwitted me also. What does it love? Whom does it fondle? It beats the good, and suffers not the bad to go unpunished, and no one understands life’s justice.” The girl began to feel painfully sorry for the old man; she was seized with an intense yearning to help him; she longed to be of use to him. Following him with burning eyes, she suddenly said in a low voice: “Papa, dear! do not grieve. Taras is still alive. Perhaps he--” Mayakin stopped suddenly as though nailed to the spot, and he slowly lifted his head. “The tree that grew crooked in its youth and could not hold out will certainly break when it’s old. But nevertheless, even Taras is a straw to me now. Though I doubt whether he is better than Foma. Gordyeeff has a character, he has his father’s daring. He can take a great deal on himself. But Taraska, you recalled him just in time. Yes!” And the old man, who a moment ago had lost his courage to the point of complaining, and, grief-stricken had run about the room like a mouse in a trap, now calmly and firmly walked up with a careworn face to the table, carefully adjusted his chair, and seated himself, saying: “We’ll have to sound Taraska. He lives in Usolye at some factory. I was told by some merchants--they’re making soda there, I believe. I’ll find out the particulars. I’ll write to him.” “Allow me to write to him, papa!” begged Lubov, softly, flushing, trembling with joy. “You?” asked Mayakin, casting a brief glance at her; he then became silent, thought awhile and said: “That’s all right. That’s even better! Write to him. Ask him whether he isn’t married, how he lives, what he thinks. But then I’ll tell you what to write when the time has come.” “Do it at once, papa,” said the girl. “It is necessary to marry you off the sooner. I am keeping an eye on a certain red-haired fellow. He doesn’t seem to be stupid. He’s been polished abroad, by the way. “Is it Smolin, papa?” asked Lubov, inquisitively and anxiously. “And supposing it is he, what of it?” inquired Yakov Tarasovich in a business-like tone. “Nothing, I don’t know him,” replied Lubov, indefinitely. “We’ll make you acquainted. It’s time, Lubov, it’s time. Our hopes for Foma are poor, although I do not give him up.” “I did not reckon on Foma--what is he to me?” “That’s wrong. If you had been cleverer perhaps he wouldn’t have gone astray! Whenever I used to see you together, I thought: ‘My girl will attract the fellow to herself! That will be a fine affair!’ But I was wrong. I thought that you would know what is to your advantage without being told of it. That’s the way, my girl!” said the father, instructively.