ps, but you see she had got a chill! In a chill the
first thing is to let blood, Maxim Nikolaitch."

But the assistant had already sent for the next patient, and a
peasant woman came into the consulting room with a boy.

"Go along! go along," he said to Yakov, frowning. "It's no use to
--"

"In that case put on leeches, anyway! Make us pray for you for
ever."

The assistant flew into a rage and shouted:

"You speak to me again! You blockhead. . . ."

Yakov flew into a rage too, and he turned crimson all over, but he
did not utter a word. He took Marfa on his arm and led her out of
the room. Only when they were sitting in the cart he looked morosely
and ironically at the hospital, and said:

"A nice set of artists they have settled here! No fear, but he would
have cupped a rich man, but even a leech he grudges to the poor.
The Herods!"

When they got home and went into the hut, Marfa stood for ten minutes
holding on to the stove. It seemed to her that if she were to lie
down Yakov would talk to her about his losses, and scold her for
lying down and not wanting to work. Yakov looked at her drearily
and thought that to-morrow was St. John the Divine's, and next day
St. Nikolay the Wonder-worker's, and the day after that was Sunday,
and then Monday, an unlucky day. For four days he would not be able
to work, and most likely Marfa would die on one of those days; so
he would have to make the coffin to-day. He picked up his iron rule,
went up to the old woman and took her measure. Then she lay down,
and he crossed himself and began making the coffin.

When the coffin was finished Bronze put on his spectacles and wrote
in his book: "Marfa Ivanov's coffin, two roubles, forty kopecks."

And he heaved a sigh. The old woman lay all the time silent with
her eyes closed. But in the evening, when it got dark, she suddenly
called the old man.

"Do you remember, Yakov," she asked, looking at him joyfully. "Do
you remember fifty years ago God gave us a little baby with flaxen
hair? We used always to be sitting by the river then, singing songs
. . . under the willows," and laughing bitterly, she added: "The
baby girl died."

Yakov racked his memory, but could not remember the baby or the
willows.

"It's your fancy," he said.

The priest arrived; he administered the sacrament and extreme
unction. Then Marfa began muttering something unintelligible, and
towards morning she died. Old women, neighbours, washed her, dressed