well, say?"

"Five hundred rubles!" repeated Gavrilo, distrustfully, but he was
immediately seized with fright and quickly asked, kicking the bales at
the bottom of the boat: "What are those things?"

"That's silk. A very dear thing. If it were to be sold for its real
value, it would bring a thousand rubles. But I don't raise the price
. . . clever that, eh?"

"Is it possible?" asked Gavrilo. "If I only had as much!"

He sighed at the thought of the country, of his miserable life, his
toil, his mother and all those far-distant and dear things for which he
had gone away to work, and for which he had suffered so much that
night. A wave of memory swept over him: he saw his village on a
hill-side with the river at the bottom, hidden by birches, willows,
mountain-ash and wild cherry trees. The picture breathed some life in
him and gave him a little strength.

"Oh, Lord, how much good it would do!" he sighed, sadly.

"Yes! I imagine that you'd very quickly board the train
and--good-evening! Oh, how the girls would love you, yonder, in the
village! You could have your pick. You could have a new house built.
But for a new house, there might not be enough . . ."

"That's true. A house, no; wood is very dear with us."

"Never mind, you could have the one that you have repaired. Do you own