Semyonitch." At last he began to cry. "Tell me at least one thing," he asked . . . "is he handsome, young?"

"Yes, he is young," I answered.

"He is young," repeated Punin, smearing the tears over his cheeks; "and she is young. . . . It's from that that all the trouble's sprung!"

This rhyme came by chance; poor Punin was in no mood for versifying. I would have given a good deal to hear his rhapsodical eloquence again, or even his almost noiseless laugh. . . . Alas! his eloquence was quenched for ever, and I never heard his laugh again.

I promised to let him know, as soon as I should find out anything positive. . . . Tarhov's name I did not, however, mention. Punin suddenly collapsed completely. "Very good, very good, sir, thank you," he said with a pitiful face, using the word "sir," which he had never done before; "only mind, sir, do not say anything to Paramon Semyonitch . . . or he'll be angry. In one word, he has forbidden it. Good-bye, sir."

As he got up and turned his back to me, Punin struck me as such a poor feeble creature, that I positively marvelled; he limped with both legs, and doubled up at each step. . . .

"It's a bad look-out. It's the end of him, that's what it means," I thought.

Though I had promised Punin to trace Musa,