d convulsive sobs, tearing her by their violence, were
suddenly wrung from her breast. She threw herself, face downwards, on
the sofa, trying to stifle them, but still her body heaved and throbbed
like a captured bird.

'Elena Nikolaevna--for God's sake,' Bersenyev was repeating over her.

'Ah! What is it?' suddenly sounded the voice of Insarov.

Elena started up, and Bersenyev felt rooted to the spot. After waiting a
little, he went up to the bed. Insarov's head lay on the pillow helpless
as before; his eyes were closed.

'Is he delirious?' whispered Elena.

'It seems so,' answered Bersenyev, 'but that's nothing; it's always so,
especially if----'

'When was he taken ill?' Elena broke in.

'The day before yesterday; I have been here since yesterday. Rely on
me, Elena Nikolaevna. I will not leave him; everything shall be done. If
necessary, we will have a consultation.'

'He will die without me,' she cried, wringing her hands.

'I give you my word I will let you hear every day how his illness goes
on, and if there should be immediate danger----'

'Swear you will send for me at once whenever it may be, day or night,
write a note straight to me--I care for nothing now. Do you hear? you
promise you will do that?'

'I promise before God'

'Swear it.'

'I swear.'

She suddenly snatched his hand, and before he had time to pull it away,
she had bent and pressed her lips to it.

'Elena Nikolaevna, what are you----' he stammered.

'No--no--I won't have it----' Insarov muttered indistinctly, and sighed
painfully.

Elena went up to the screen, her handkerchief pressed between her teeth,
and bent a long, long look on the sick man. Silent tears rolled down her
cheeks.

'Elena Nikolaevna,' Bersenyev said to her, 'he might come to himself
and recognise you; there's no knowing if that wouldn't do harm. Besides,
from hour to hour I expect the doctor.'

Elena took her hat from the sofa, put it on and stood still. Her eyes
strayed mournfully over the room. She seemed to be remembering....

'I cannot go away,' she whispered at last.

Bersenyev pressed her hand: 'Try to pull yourself together,' he said,
'calm yourself; you are leaving him in my care. I will come to you this
very evening.'

Elena looked at him, said: 'Oh, my good, kind friend!' broke into sobs
and rushed away.

Bersenyev leaned against the door. A feeling of sorrow and bitterness,
not without a kind of strange consolation, overcame him. 'My goo