My father grew old.

He was always figuring on a piece of paper.

We children knew the till was empty when the silver candlesticks were taken away to be pawned.

Next, superfluous featherbeds were sold for what they would bring, and then there came a day when grandma, with eyes blinded by tears, groped in the big wardrobe for my mother's satin dress and velvet mantle; and after that it did not matter any more what was taken out of the house.
Then everything took a sudden turn.

My mother began to improve, and at the same time my father was offered a good position as superintendent of a gristmill.
As soon as my mother could be moved, he took us all out to the mill, about three versts out of town, on the Polota.