For a few moments all were silent and motionless, crushed as they were by the immensity of their emotions.

The silence was broken by the low, but dull and quivering voice of Yakov Tarasovich: "You have grown old, Taras." The son laughed in his father's face silently, and, with a swift glance, surveyed him from head to foot.
The father tearing his hands from the door posts, made a step toward his son and suddenly stopped short with a frown.

Then Taras Mayakin, with one huge step, came up to his father and gave him his hand.
"Well, let us kiss each other," suggested the father, softly.
The two old men convulsively clasped each other in their arms, exchanged warm kisses and then stepped apart.

The wrinkles of the older man quivered, the lean face of the younger was immobile, almost stern.

The kisses had changed nothing in the external side of this scene, only Lubov burst into a sob of joy, and Foma awkwardly moved about in his seat, feeling as though his breath were failing him.
"Eh, children, you are wounds to the heart--you are not its joy," complained Yakov Tarasovich in a ringing voice, and he evidently invested a great deal in these words, for immediately after he had pronounced them he became radiant, more courageous, and he said briskly, addressing himself to his daughter: "Well, have you melted with joy?
You had better go and prepare something for us--tea and so forth.