wiped his
eyeglasses with his handkerchief. In the stillness beyond the window
the nocturnal noise of the city heaved wearily, and cold air blew on
their faces and shoulders. Liudmila trembled; the mother saw tears
running down her cheeks. From the corridor of the hospital floated
confused, dismal sounds. The three stood motionless at the window,
looking silently into the darkness.

The mother felt herself not needed, and carefully freeing her hand,
went to the door, bowing to Yegor.

"Are you going?" the physician asked softly without looking around.

"Yes."

In the street she thought with pity of Liudmila, remembering her scant
tears. She couldn't even have a good cry. Then she pictured to
herself Liudmila and the physician in the extremely light white room,
the dead eyes of Yegor behind them. A compassion for all people
oppressed her. She sighed heavily, and hastened her pace, driven along
by her tumultuous feelings.

"I must hurry," she thought in obedience to a sad but encouraging power
that jostled her from within.

The whole of the following day the mother was busy with preparations
for the funeral. In the evening when she, Nikolay, and Sofya were
drinking tea, quietly talking about Yegor, Sashenka appeared, strangely
brimming over with good spirits, her cheeks brilliantly red, her eyes
beaming happily. She seemed to be filled with some joyous hope. Her
animation contrasted sharply with the mournful gloom of the others.
The discordant note disturbed them and dazzled them like a fire that
suddenly flashes in the darkness. Nikolay thoughtfully struck his
fingers on the table and smiled quietly.

"You're not like yourself to-day, Sasha."

"Perhaps," she laughed happily.

The mother looked at her in mute remonstrance, and Sofya observed in a
tone of admonishment:

"And we were talking about Yegor Ivanovich."

"What a wonderful fellow, isn't he?" she exclaimed. "Modest, proof
against doubt, he probably never yielded to sorrow. I have never seen
him without a joke on his lips; and what a worker! He is an artist of
the revolution, a great master, who skillfully manipulates
revolutionary thoughts. With what simplicity and power he always draws
his pictures of falsehood, violence and untruth! And what a capacity
he has for tempering the horrible with his gay humor which does not
diminish the force of facts but only the more brightly illumines his
inner thought! Always droll! I am greatly