Kirilov, a child of six, called Andrey, died
of diphtheria. Just as the doctor's wife sank on her knees by the
dead child's bedside and was overwhelmed by the first rush of despair
there came a sharp ring at the bell in the entry.

All the servants had been sent out of the house that morning on
account of the diphtheria. Kirilov went to open the door just as
he was, without his coat on, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without
wiping his wet face or his hands which were scalded with carbolic.
It was dark in the entry and nothing could be distinguished in the
man who came in but medium height, a white scarf, and a large,
extremely pale face, so pale that its entrance seemed to make the
passage lighter.

"Is the doctor at home?" the newcomer asked quickly.

"I am at home," answered Kirilov. "What do you want?"

"Oh, it's you? I am very glad," said the stranger in a tone of
relief, and he began feeling in the dark for the doctor's hand,
found it and squeezed it tightly in his own. "I am very . . . very
glad! We are acquainted. My name is Abogin, and I had the honour
of meeting you in the summer at Gnutchev's. I am very glad I have
found you at home. For God's sake don't refuse to come back with
me at once. . . . My wife has been taken dangerously ill. . . . And
the carriage is waiting. . . ."

From the voice and gestures of the speaker it could be seen that
he was in a state of great excitement. Like a man terrified by a
house on fire or a mad dog, he could hardly restrain his rapid
breathing and spoke quickly in a shaking voice, and there was a
note of unaffected sincerity and childish alarm in his voice. As
people always do who are frightened and overwhelmed, he spoke in
brief, jerky sentences and uttered a great many unnecessary,
irrelevant words.

"I was afraid I might not find you in," he went on. "I was in a
perfect agony as I drove here. Put on your things and let us go,
for God's sake. . . . This is how it happened. Alexandr Semyonovitch
Paptchinsky, whom you know, came to see me. . . . We talked a little
and then we sat down to tea; suddenly my wife cried out, clutched
at her heart, and fell back on her chair. We carried her to bed and
. . . and I rubbed her forehead with ammonia and sprinkled her with
water . . . she lay as though she were dead. . . . I am afraid it
is aneurism . . . . Come along . . . her father died of aneurism."

Kirilov listened and said nothing, as though he did not understand
Russia