“Yes, but you ought to have made up something—­told him some trifling lie,” I interrupted.

“I can’t lie,” answered Raissa, raising her hands.

True, thought I to myself, she cannot lie.

“There’s no need of lying,” said David, “nor is there any need of your killing yourself in this way.  Do you suppose any one will thank you for it?”

Raissa looked at him:  “What I wanted to ask you, David, was how do you spell should?”

“What?—­should?”

“Yes, for instance, ‘Should you like to live?’”

“Oh!—–­s-h-o-u-d?”

“No,” I interrupted again, “that’s not right:  not o-u-d, but o-u-l-d”

“Well, it’s all the same,” said David:  “spell it with an l.  The most important thing is that you should live yourself.”

“I wish I knew how to spell and write properly,” said Raissa, blushing slightly.

When she blushed she became at once amazingly pretty.

“It may be of use.  Father in his time wrote a beautiful hand:  he taught me it, too.  Now he can hardly scrawl the letters.”

“You must live for me,” answered David, lowering his voice and gazing at her steadily.  Raissa looked up quickly and blushed more deeply.  “Live and spell as you please.—­The devil! here’s that old witch coming.” (By the witch David meant my aunt.) “What brings her this way?  Run off, my dear.”

With one more look at David, Raissa hastened away.

It was only seldom and with great reluctance that David used to talk with me about Raissa and her family, especially since he had begun to expect his father’s return.  He could think of nothing but him, and how we should then live.  He remembered him clearly, and used to describe him to me with great satisfaction:  “Tall, strong:  with one hand he could lift two hundred pounds.  If he called, ‘I say, boy!’ the whole house could hear him.  And such a man as he is—­good and brave!  I don’t believe there’s anything he’s afraid of.  We lived pleasantly until our misfortunes came upon us.  They say his hair is become perfectly gray, but it used to be light red like mine.  He’s a powerful man.”

David would never agree that we were going to live in Riasan.

“You’ll go away,” I used to say, “but I shall stay here.”

“Nonsense! we’ll take you with us.”

“And what’ll become of my father?”

“You’ll leave him.  If you don’t, it will be the worse for you.”

“How so?”

David merely frowned and made no answer.

“See here:  if we go with my father,” he resumed, “he will get some good position:  I shall marry—­”

“Not so soon as that?” I interrupted.

“Why not?  I shall marry soon.”

“You?”

“Yes, I; and why not?”

“Have you chosen your wife yet?”

“Of course.”

“And who is it?”

David smiled:  “How stupid you are!  Who but Raissa?”