an with a bloodstained face all scorched
from the fire, binds to his saddle a young girl with a white Russian
face, and the girl looks sorrowful, understanding. Yartsev flung
back his head and woke up.

"My friend, my tender friend . . ." he hummed.

As he paid the cabman and went up his stairs, he could not shake
off his dreaminess; he saw the flames catching the village, and the
forest beginning to crackle and smoke. A huge, wild bear frantic
with terror rushed through the village. . . . And the girl tied to
the saddle was still looking.

When at last he went into his room it was broad daylight. Two candles
were burning by some open music on the piano. On the sofa lay Polina
Razsudin wearing a black dress and a sash, with a newspaper in her
hand, fast asleep. She must have been playing late, waiting for
Yartsev to come home, and, tired of waiting, fell asleep.

"Hullo, she's worn out," he thought.

Carefully taking the newspaper out of her hands, he covered her
with a rug. He put out the candles and went into his bedroom. As
he got into bed, he still thought of his historical play, and the
tune of "My friend, my tender friend" was still ringing in his
head. . . .

Two days later Laptev looked in upon him for a moment to tell him
that Lida was ill with diphtheria, and that Yulia Sergeyevna and
her baby had caught it from her, and five days later came the news
that Lida and Yulia were recovering, but the baby was dead, and
that the Laptevs had left their villa at Sokolniki and had hastened
back to Moscow.

XIV

It had become distasteful to Laptev to be long at home. His wife
was constantly away in the lodge declaring that she had to look
after the little girls, but he knew that she did not go to the lodge
to give them lessons but to cry in Kostya's room. The ninth day
came, then the twentieth, and then the fortieth, and still he had
to go to the cemetery to listen to the requiem, and then to wear
himself out for a whole day and night thinking of nothing but that
unhappy baby, and trying to comfort his wife with all sorts of
commonplace expressions. He went rarely to the warehouse now, and
spent most of his time in charitable work, seizing upon every pretext
requiring his attention, and he was glad when he had for some trivial
reason to be out for the whole day. He had been intending of late
to go abroad, to study night-refuges, and that idea attracted him
now.

It was an autumn day. Yulia had just gone to