Two years passed.  One day as Skvortsov was standing at the ticket-office of a theatre, paying for his ticket, he saw beside him a little man with a lambskin collar and a shabby cat’s-skin cap.  The man timidly asked the clerk for a gallery ticket and paid for it with kopecks.

“Lushkov, is it you?” asked Skvortsov, recognizing in the little man his former woodchopper.  “Well, what are you doing?  Are you getting on all right?”

“Pretty well. . . .  I am in a notary’s office now.  I earn thirty-five roubles.”

“Well, thank God, that’s capital.  I rejoice for you.  I am very, very glad, Lushkov.  You know, in a way, you are my godson.  It was I who shoved you into the right way.  Do you remember what a scolding I gave you, eh?  You almost sank through the floor that time.  Well, thank you, my dear fellow, for remembering my words.”

“Thank you too,” said Lushkov.  “If I had not come to you that day, maybe I should be calling myself a schoolmaster or a student still.  Yes, in your house I was saved, and climbed out of the pit.”

“I am very, very glad.”

“Thank you for your kind words and deeds.  What you said that day was excellent.  I am grateful to you and to your cook, God bless that kind, noble-hearted woman.  What you said that day was excellent; I am indebted to you as long as I live, of course, but it was your cook, Olga, who really saved me.”

“How was that?”

“Why, it was like this.  I used to come to you to chop wood and she would begin:  ’Ah, you drunkard!  You God-forsaken man!  And yet death does not take you!’ and then she would sit opposite me, lamenting, looking into my face and wailing:  ’You unlucky fellow!  You have no gladness in this world, and in the next you will burn in hell, poor drunkard!  You poor sorrowful creature!’ and she always went on in that style, you know.  How often she upset herself, and how many tears she shed over me I can’t tell you.  But what affected me most —­she chopped the wood for me!  Do you know, sir, I never chopped a single log for you—­she did it all!  How it was she saved me, how it was I changed, looking at her, and gave up drinking, I can’t explain.  I only know that what she said and the noble way she behaved brought about a change in my soul, and I shall never forget it.  It’s time to go up, though, they are just going to ring the bell.”

Lushkov bowed and went off to the gallery.

A STORY WITHOUT A TITLE

In the fifth century, just as now, the sun rose every morning and every evening retired to rest.  In the morning, when the first rays kissed the dew, the earth revived, the air was filled with the sounds of rapture and hope; while in the evening the same earth subsided into silence and plunged into gloomy darkness.  One day was like another, one night like another.  From time to time a storm-cloud raced up and there was the angry rumble of thunder, or a negligent star fell out of the sky, or a pale monk ran to tell the brotherhood that not far from the monastery he had seen a tiger—­and that was all, and then each day was like the next.