nothing, but he lost no hope of finding it out. He feared his father and respected him. Ignat’s enormous size, his harsh, trumpet-like voice, his bearded face, his gray-haired head, his powerful, long arms and his flashing eyes--all these gave to Ignat the resemblance of the fairy-tale robbers. Foma shuddered whenever he heard his voice or his heavy, firm steps; but when the father, smiling kind-heartedly, and talking playfully in a loud voice, took him upon his knees or threw him high up in the air with his big hands the boy’s fear vanished. Once, when the boy was about eight years old, he asked his father, who had returned from a long journey: “Papa, where were you?” “On the Volga.” “Were you robbing there?” asked Foma, softly. “Wha-at?” Ignat drawled out, and his eyebrows contracted. “Aren’t you a robber, papa? I know it,” said Foma, winking his eyes slyly, satisfied that he had already read the secret of his father’s life. “I am a merchant!” said Ignat, sternly, but after a moment’s thought he smiled kind-heartedly and added: “And you are a little fool! I deal in corn, I run a line of steamers. Have you seen the ‘Yermak’? Well, that is my steamer. And yours, too.” “It is a very big one,” said Foma with a sigh. “Well, I’ll buy you a small one while you are small yourself. Shall I?” “Very well,” Foma assented, but after a thoughtful silence he again drawled out regretfully: “But I thought you were a robber or a giant.” “I tell you I am a merchant!” repeated Ignat, insinuatingly, and there was something discontented and almost timorous in his glance at the disenchanted face of his son. “Like Grandpa Fedor, the Kalatch baker?” asked Foma, having thought awhile. “Well, yes, like him. Only I am richer than he. I have more money than Fedor.” “Have you much money?” “Well, some people have still more.” “How many barrels do you have?” “Of what?” “Of money, I mean.” “Fool! Is money counted by the barrel?” “How else?” exclaimed Foma, enthusiastically, and, turning his face toward his father, began to tell him quickly: “Maksimka, the robber, came once to a certain town and filled up twelve barrels with money belonging to some rich man there. And he took different silverware and robbed a church. And cut up a man with his sword and threw him down the steeple because he tried to sound an alarm.” “Did your aunt tell you that?” asked Ignat admiring his son’s enthusiasm. “Yes! Why?” “Nothing!” said Ignat, laughing. “So you thought your father was a robber.” “And perhaps you were a robber long ago?” Foma again returned to his theme, and it was evident on his face that he would be very glad to hear an affirmative answer. “I was never a robber. Let that end it.” “Never?”