gnificent woman! You
ought to be working with her, granny. You see, she gets very much worn
out. It's she that does all the printing for us."

"Don't speak. Here, you'd better take this medicine," the mother said
gently.

He swallowed the medicine and continued, for some reason screwing up
one eye:

"I'll die all the same, even if I don't speak."

He looked into the mother's face with his other eye, and his lips
slowly formed themselves into a smile. The mother bent her head, a
sharp sensation of pity bringing tears into her eyes.

"Never mind, granny. It's natural. The pleasure of living carries
with it the obligation to die."

The mother put her hand on his, and again said softly:

"Keep quiet, please!"

He shut his eyes as if listening to the rattle in his breast, and went
on stubbornly.

"It's senseless to keep quiet, granny. What'll I gain by keeping
quiet? A few superfluous seconds of agony. And I'll lose the great
pleasure of chattering with a good person. I think that in the next
world there aren't such good people as here."

The mother uneasily interrupted him.

"The lady will come, and she'll scold me because you talk."

"She's no lady. She's a revolutionist, the daughter of a village
scribe, a teacher. She is sure to scold you anyhow, granny. She
scolds everybody always." And, slowly moving his lips with an effort,
Yegor began to relate the life history of his neighbor. His eyes
smiled. The mother saw that he was bantering her purposely. As she
regarded his face, covered with a moist blueness, she thought
distressfully that he was near to death.

Liudmila entered, and carefully closing the door after her, said,
turning to Vlasova:

"Your friend ought to change his clothes without fail, and leave here
as soon as possible. So go at once; get him some clothes, and bring
them here. I'm sorry Sofya's not here. Hiding people is her
specialty."

"She's coming to-morrow," remarked Vlasova, throwing her shawl over her
shoulders. Every time she was given a commission the strong desire
seized her to accomplish it promptly and well, and she was unable to
think of anything but the task before her. Now, lowering her brows
with an air of preoccupation, she asked zealously:

"How should we dress him, do you think?"

"It's all the same. It's night, you know."

"At night it's worse. There are less people on the street, and the
police spy around more; and, you know, he's rather aw