15. The Meeting of Friends

For that matter, if Maroussia had not answered him, he could have divined her response, by looking at her only; every fiber of her body showed that fatigue was forgotten.

But the farmer, not satisfied with the testimony given by the happy face of the child, questioned Tchetchevik with a glance.

“My little companion is well, very well,” he said. “You can give a good account to those who confided her to me. She is a little lion, gentle as a dove,” and he patted the child with his hand.

“My little Tarass is not a lion, much less a dove,” Knich answered. “He is a little plague; I cannot teach him to hold his tongue.”

“Patience, patience,” said Tchetchevik, “our children will know much more than we some day. Well, Maroussia, you are assured of the welfare of your family.”

“Ah!” said Knich, seeing the wreath on the child’s head, “The little wreath has already told her. Your mother’s hands arranged it, my dear little child.”

“Good father Knich,” said the little girl, “how many pleasant things you and the wreath tell me!”

“Come, come,” said Tchetchevik, “the river is quiet, there is not a breath of air; a row in the skiff will be very pleasant.”

He had scarcely spoken, when a gull’s cry, like those they had already heard, came out of the thick gray beard of the good old farmer.

A similar cry answered him from the shore. “Ah!” Tchetchevik said, “you see, Maroussia, it is the husband who answers.”

“I understand, I understand,” said the little girl, “the gulls on the banks of this river are very clever, although all of them have not wings.”

Knich had pushed his skiff into the water.

“Come here, little girl,” he said, reaching his hand to Maroussia. When’ she was seated, Tchetchevik jumped so lightly into the boat that it scarcely moved. He seized the second oar, and the little craft glided swiftly over the dark waters between the banks of the Dnieper already indistinct in the twilight.