one.  If any! one scolded her, she only bowed to them and thanked them for the admonition.  Her mistress had long ago forgiven her, raised her out of disgrace, and made her a present of a cap of her own.  But she was herself unwilling to give up the kerchief and always wore a dark dress.  After her mistress’ death she became still more quiet and humble.  A Russian readily feels fear, and affection; but it is hard to gain his respect:  it is not soon given, nor to every one.  For Agafya every one in the home had great respect; no one even remembered her previous sins, as though they had been buried with the old master.

When Kalitin became Marya Dmitrievna’s husband, he wanted to intrust the care of the house to Agafya.  But she refused “on account of temptation;” he scolded her, but she bowed humbly and left the room.  Kalitin was clever in understanding men; he understood Agafya and did not forget her.  When he moved to the town, he gave her, with her consent, the place of nurse to Lisa, who was only just five years old.

Lisa was at first frightened by the austere and serious face of her new nurse; but she soon grew used to her and began to love her.  She was herself a serious child.  Her features recalled Kalitin’s decided and regular profile, only her eyes were not her father’s; they were lighted up by a gentle attentiveness and goodness, rare in children.  She did not care to play with dolls, never laughed loudly or for long, and behaved with great decorum.  She was not often thoughtful, but when she was, it was almost always with some reason.  After a short silence, she usually turned to some grown-up person with a question which showed that her brain had been at work upon some new impression.  She very early got over childish lispings, and by the time she was four years old spoke perfectly plainly.  She was afraid of her father; her feeling towards her mother was undefinable, she was not afraid of her, nor was she demonstrative to her; but she was not demonstrative even towards Agafya, though she was the only person she loved.  Agafya never left her.  It was curious to see them together.  Agafya, all in black, with a dark handkerchief on her head, her face thin and transparent as wax, but still beautiful and expressive, would be sitting upright, knitting a stocking; Lisa would sit at her feet in a little arm-chair, also busied over some kind of work, and seriously raising her clear eyes, listening to what Agafya was relating to her.  And Agafya did not tell her stories; but in even measured accents she would narrate the life of the Holy Virgin, the lives of hermits, saints, and holy men.  She would tell Lisa how the holy men lived in deserts, how they were saved, how they suffered hunger and want, and did not fear kings, but confessed Christ; how fowls of the air brought them food and wild beasts listened to them, and flowers sprang up on the spots where their blood had been spilt.  “Wall-flowers?” asked Lisa one ay, she was very fond of flowers . .