"Good afternoon, MÁrya DmÍtrievna!"—exclaimed the horseman, in a ringing, agreeable voice.—"How do you like my new purchase?"

MÁrya DmÍtrievna went to the window.

"Good afternoon, Woldemar! Akh, what a magnificent horse! From whom did you buy it?"

"From the remount officer.... He asked a high price, the robber!"

"What is its name?"

"Orlando.... But that's a stupid name; I want to change it.... Eh bien, eh bien, mon garÇon.... What a turbulent beast!" The horse snorted, shifted from foot to foot, and tossed his foaming muzzle.

"Pat him, LÉnotchka, have no fears...."

The little girl stretched her hand out of the window, but Orlando suddenly reared up, and leaped aside. The rider did not lose control, gripped the horse with his knees, gave him a lash on the neck with his whip, and, despite his opposition, placed him once more in front of the window.

"Prenez garde! prenez garde!"—MÁrya DmÍtrievna kept repeating.

"Pat him, LyÉnotchka,"—returned the rider,—"I will not permit him to be wilful."

Again the little girl stretched forth her hand, and timidly touched the quivering nostrils of Orlando, who trembled incessantly and strained at the bit.

"Bravo!"—exclaimed MÁrya DmÍtrievna,—"and now, dismount, and come in."

The horseman turned his steed round adroitly, gave him the spurs, and after dashing along the street at a brisk gallop, rode into the yard. A minute later, he ran in through the door of the anteroom into the drawing-room, flourishing his whip; at the same moment, on the threshold of another door, a tall, graceful, black-haired girl of nineteen—MÁrya DmÍtrievna's eldest daughter, Liza—made her appearance.