the girls answered. “You may be Charles or Ernest or the father, whichever you like best,” added Katenka as she tried to raise him from the ground by pulling at his sleeve.

“No, I’m not going to; it’s a tiresome game,” said Woloda again, though smiling as if secretly pleased.

“It would be better to sit at home than not to play at ANYTHING,” murmured Lubotshka, with tears in her eyes. She was a great weeper.

“Well, go on, then. Only, DON’T cry; I can’t stand that sort of thing.”

Woloda’s condescension did not please us much. On the contrary, his lazy, tired expression took away all the fun of the game. When we sat on the ground and imagined