“Have you been dvornik for long?”

“Yes; for a long, long time.”

“And my landlord is a burgher, is he not?”

“Yes; certainly he is a burgher if he has told you so.”

“What does he do with himself?”

“He falls ill sometimes. He also lives, and prays to God.”

“And is the lady his wife?”

“What lady?”

“The lady who lives with him.”

“Yes; certainly she is his wife if he has told you so. Good-night, barin.” And, with a touch of his cap, the dvornik retired to his lodge.

Ordynov went up to his room—the door being opened to him by the old woman, who, muttering and grumbling to herself, proceeded next to shoot the bolt, and then to withdraw to the garret where she spent most of her time. Night fell, and Ordynov had to go in search of a light; but since he found his landlord’s door locked, he was forced again to summon the old woman, who, resting her arms akimbo, stared at him intently, and seemed uneasy at finding him near her master’s door. At length she silently threw him a box of matches, and he re-entered his room. For about the hundredth time he made an attempt to put his books and belongings in order, but before long something compelled him to sink upon a bench, and to fall into a strange sort of torpor. At intervals he would come to himself, and know that his sleep was not really sleep, but a sick faint. Then he heard a door open, and guessed that his hosts were returning from evening prayer. Next, with an idea that he had a request to make of them, he rose, and believed himself to be walking, but in reality made a false step, and fell headlong over a bundle of wood which the old woman had just thrown into his room. There he lay unconscious, until, at length opening his eyes, he was surprised to find himself fully dressed on the bench, while over him, with tender solicitude, there was bending a woman’s face—a beautiful face which was wet with compassionate, almost maternal, tears. Soon, too, he felt a pillow being thrust under his head, his body being covered with something warm, and a fresh young hand touching his burning forehead. He would have liked to have said “Thank you,” and to have seized that hand, and to have lifted it to his parched lips, and to have bathed it with tears, and to have clasped it—yes, to have clasped it for all eternity! He would have liked, too, to have said many things, but could not think how to do so. Above all he would have liked to have died that very instant. His hands felt like lead, and he could not move them at all as he lay there in his helplessness. Nevertheless he could hear the blood beating with such extraordinary violence in his arteries as almost to lift him from the bed, as well as feel that some one was bathing his temples. At length he relapsed into unconsciousness.