Towards evening—­it was a fine autumn day—­old Tsybukin was sitting near the church gates, with the collar of his fur coat turned up and nothing of him could be seen but his nose and the peak of his cap.  At the other end of the long seat was sitting Elizarov the contractor, and beside him Yakov the school watchman, a toothless old man of seventy.  Crutch and the watchman were talking.

“Children ought to give food and drink to the old....  Honour thy father and mother...”  Yakov was saying with irritation, “while she, this daughter-in-law, has turned her father-in-law out of his own house; the old man has neither food nor drink, where is he to go?  He has not had a morsel for these three days.”

“Three days!” said Crutch, amazed.

“Here he sits and does not say a word.  He has grown feeble.  And why be silent?  He ought to prosecute her, they wouldn’t flatter her in the police court.”

“Wouldn’t flatter whom?” asked Crutch, not hearing.

“What?”

“The woman’s all right, she does her best.  In their line of business they can’t get on without that... without sin, I mean....”

“From his own house,” Yakov went on with irritation.  “Save up and buy your own house, then turn people out of it!  She is a nice one, to be sure!  A pla-ague!”

Tsybukin listened and did not stir.

“Whether it is your own house or others’ it makes no difference so long as it is warm and the women don’t scold...” said Crutch, and he laughed.  “When I was young I was very fond of my Nastasya.  She was a quiet woman.  And she used to be always at it:  ’Buy a house, Makaritch!  Buy a house, Makaritch!  Buy a house, Makaritch!’ She was dying and yet she kept on saying, ’Buy yourself a racing droshky, Makaritch, that you may not have to walk.’  And I bought her nothing but gingerbread.”

“Her husband’s deaf and stupid,” Yakov went on, not hearing Crutch; “a regular fool, just like a goose.  He can’t understand anything.  Hit a goose on the head with a stick and even then it does not understand.”

Crutch got up to go home to the factory.  Yakov also got up, and both of them went off together, still talking.  When they had gone fifty paces old Tsybukin got up, too, and walked after them, stepping uncertainly as though on slippery ice.

The village was already plunged in the dusk of evening and the sun only gleamed on the upper part of the road which ran wriggling like a snake up the slope.  Old women were coming back from the woods and children with them; they were bringing baskets of mushrooms.  Peasant women and girls came in a crowd from the station where they had been loading the trucks with bricks, and their noses and their cheeks under their eyes were covered with red brick-dust.  They were singing.  Ahead of them all was Lipa singing in a high voice, with her eyes turned upwards to the sky, breaking into trills as though triumphant and ecstatic that at last the day was over and she could rest.  In the crowd was her mother Praskovya, who was walking with a bundle in her arms and breathless as usual.