standing around the stove, and after uttering the greeting, "Be it well with you!" proceeded to strip off his outer garments.
"Why, thou art all frosted, uncle!" said the elder brother, regarding Nikita's face, eyes, and beard in their frame of snow. Nikita took off his kaftan, shook it once more, hung it up against the stove, and drew near to the table. To him also vodka was presented. For an instant a torturing struggle went on within him, he was very nearly accepting the little glass and tossing down his throat the pungently fragrant, sparkling fluid; but he glanced at Vasily Andreich, called to mind his promise, called to mind the boots he had drunk away, called to mind the cooper, called to mind his little one for whom he had promised to buy a horse in the spring — and he sighed, and refused it.
"I won't drink it, thank you, crying your pardon," said he frowning, and he sat down on the bench opposite the second window.
"Why, how's that?" asked the elder brother.
"I won't drink, and I don't drink," said Nikita, not raising his eyes, and stroking his moustache and beard free of the icicles which still clung to them.
"It is not good for him," said Vasily Andreich, sipping away at his own well-filled glass.
"Then have a cup of tea," said the kindly old hostess. "Why, you're half frozen, frozen to the bone, I should think. Hie, you women there, what are you about with that samovar?"
"It is quite ready," replied one of the young women, coming forward with the cloth-covered, heavy
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