smouldering perfumed stick, putting a halfpenny under it.
'How many months old is he?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.
'Six months; it will soon be seven, on the eleventh.'
'Isn't it eight, Fedosya Nikolaevna?' put in Dunyasha, with some timidity.
'No, seven; what an idea!' The baby chuckled again, stared at the chest, and suddenly caught hold of his mother's nose and mouth with all his five little fingers. 'Saucy mite,' said Fenitchka, not drawing her face away.
'He's like my brother,' observed Pavel Petrovitch.
'Who else should he be like?' thought Fenitchka.
'Yes,' continued Pavel Petrovitch, as though speaking to himself; 'there's an unmistakable likeness.' He looked attentively, almost mournfully, at Fenitchka.
'That's uncle,' she repeated, in a whisper this time.
'Ah! Pavel! so you're here!' was heard suddenly the voice of Nikolai Petrovitch.
Pavel Petrovitch turned hurriedly round, frowning; but his brother looked at him with such delight, such gratitude, that he could not help responding to his smile.
