his name, and one was simply called Wheel Ivan. When Tchitchikoff had finished writing, he sniffed the air a little, and inhaled the smell of something hot and buttery.

“I humbly beg of you to taste,” said his hostess, whereupon he glanced round, and saw on the table some mushrooms, patties, butter-cakes, pancakes, griddle-cakes, and all sorts of tarts—tarts containing garlic, poppy-seeds, curds, fish, and what not.

“Here is a sweet pasty with eggs,” said the hostess.

Tchitchikoff attacked the sweet pasty with eggs, and after eating nearly half of it, he praised it. In fact, the pasty was savoury in itself; and besides, after all his trouble and bartering with the old woman, he needed some substantial refreshment.

“Will you have some griddle-cakes?” asked his hostess.

In reply, Tchitchikoff rolled three cakes together, dipped them in some melted butter, put them into his mouth, and then wiped his lips and rubbed his hands on his napkin.

After repeating this three times, he requested his hostess to order his britchka to be prepared. Nastasya Petrovna immediately sent Fetinya with instructions to attend to this, and also to fetch some more hot griddle-cakes at the same time.

“Your griddle-cakes are very good, my dear woman,” said Tchitchikoff, accepting the hot ones when they arrived.

“Yes, we do them fairly well here,” said the hostess; “but it’s a pity the crops are bad; the flour is not so good.—But why are you in such a hurry, my friend?” she added, perceiving that Tchitchikoff had his cap in his hand. “The britchka is not harnessed yet.”

“It must be ready, my good woman, it must be ready. My man harnesses the horses quickly.”

“Well, please don’t forget about the contracts.”

“I won’t forget, I won’t forget,” said Tchitchikoff, as he went into the vestibule.

“And you won’t buy any lard?” said his hostess, following him.

“Why not? I’ll buy some, but later on.”

“I shall have some at Christmas.”

“I will buy it, I will buy it: I will buy everything you have, even your lard.”

“Perhaps you would also like some chicken’s feathers. I shall have some also at St. Philip’s feast.”

“Very good, very good,” said Tchitchikoff.

“You see, my father, that your britchka is not yet ready,” added his hostess, when they emerged from the porch.

“It will be ready sure enough. But tell me, how am I to get back to the high road?”

“How are you to get to it?” said his hostess. “Well it is hard to tell you; there are a number of turns, but I can send a little girl with you to guide you. You probably have room for her to sit on the box?”

“Of course.”