If Taras at least were here." At the recollection of her brother she felt still more grieved, still more sorry for herself.

She had written to Taras a long, exultant letter, in which she had spoken of her love for him, of her hope in him; imploring her brother to come as soon as possible to see his father, she had pictured to him plans of arranging to live together, assuring Taras that their father was extremely clever and understood everything; she told about his loneliness, had gone into ecstasy over his aptitude for life and had, at the same time, complained of his attitude toward her.
For two weeks she impatiently expected a reply, and when she had received and read it she burst out sobbing for joy and disenchantment.
The answer was dry and short; in it Taras said that within a month he would be on the Volga on business and would not fail to call on his father, if the old man really had no objection to it.

The letter was cold, like a block of ice; with tears in her eyes she perused it over and over again, rumpled it, creased it, but it did not turn warmer on this account, it only became wet.

From the sheet of stiff note paper which was covered with writing in a large, firm hand, a wrinkled and suspiciously frowning face, thin and angular like that of her father, seemed to look at her.
On Yakov Tarasovich the letter of his son made a different impression.
On learning the contents of Taras's reply the old man started and hastily turned to his daughter with animation and with a peculiar smile: "Well, let me see it! Show it to me! He-he! Let's read how wise men write.

Where are my spectacles?
Mm! 'Dear sister!' Yes." The old man became silent; he read to himself the message of his son, put it on the table, and, raising his eyebrows, silently paced the room to and fro, with an expression of amazement on his countenance.