sunlit; the face of the gray-haired old man, with the abundant гау-like wrinkles about his eyes, in his wide shoes over his bare feet, who, waddling along and smiling good-naturedly and contentedly, welcomed the master in his exclusive possessions, was so simple-hearted and kind, that Nekhlyúdov immediately forgot the heavy impressions of the morning, and his favourite dream rose up before him. He saw all his peasants just as rich and good-natured as old Dutlóv, and all smiled kindly and joyously at him, because they owed to him alone all their wealth and happiness.
"Will you not have a net, your Grace? The bees are angry now, and they sting," said the old man, taking down from the fence a dirty linen bag fragrant with honey, which was sewed to a bark hoop, and offering it to the master. "The bees know me, and do not sting me," he added, with a gentle smile, which hardly ever left his handsome, sunburnt face.
"Then I shall not need it, either. Well, are they swarming already?" asked Nekhlyúdov, also smiling, though he knew not why.
"They are swarming, Father Dmítri Nikoláevich," answered the old man, wishing to express his especial kindness by calling his master by his name and patronymic, "but they have just begun to do it properly. It has been a cold spring, you know."
"I have read in a book," began Nekhlyúdov, warding off a bee that had lost itself in his hair, and was buzzing over his very ear, "that when the combs are placed straight on little bars, the bees begin to swarm earlier. For this purpose they make hives out of boards—with cross-bea—"
"Please do not wave your hand, it will make it only worse," said the old man. "Had I not better give you the net?"
Nekhlyúdov was experiencing pain, but a certain child-
