It was late in August, the days grew shorter; it drizzled ceaselessly and the soil became boggy. The trees looked mournful, with their yellow leaves bestrewing the ground. Absolute silence reigned in the court-yard and about the servants' quarters. The domestics sat quietly under cover, partly because of the weather, partly because they finally perceived that something was the matter with the master. Yevpraksia came completely to her senses, forgot the silk dresses and her lovers, and sat in the maids' room for hours on end, brooding and wondering what she could do. The drunken Prokhor teased her that she had designs on the master's life, that she had poisoned him and she could not escape the road to Siberia. Meanwhile, Yudushka sat in his study, deep in reveries. The ceaseless patter of the rain on the window-panes lulled him half to sleep--the most favorable state for the play of his fancy. He imagined he was invisible and was inspecting his possessions, accompanied by old Ilya, who had served as bailiff under Yudushka's father, and whose bones had long since been rotting in the village churchyard. "Ilya is a clever fellow," argued Porfiry Vladimirych with himself, glad that Ilya had arisen from the dead. "An old servant! Nowadays his kind is getting rare. Nowadays they know how to chat and fidget, but when it comes to business, they're good for nothing." After saying an appropriate prayer, Yudushka and Ilya pick their way leisurely across meadows and ravines, dales and hills, and soon reach the Ukhovshchina waste. For a while they stand dazed, unable to believe their own eyes. Straight before them looms up a magnificent pine forest, their tops tossing in the wind. Some of the trees are so big in circumference that two or even three men could not embrace them. Their trunks are straight, naked, crowned with mighty, spreading tops--all signs of vigor and longevity. "What a forest, brother!" exclaims Yudushka, enraptured. "This wood has been protected from felling," explains Ilya. "Under your late grandfather Mikhail Vasilyevich, a procession with holy ikons went around it. And look how tall the trees have grown." "How large do you think the forest is?" "At that time it held just seventy desyatins, and the desyatin was then, as you know, one and a half times the present size." "And how many trees, d'you think, are there on one desyatin?" "I can't tell. Only God has counted them." "I reckon there are no less than six or seven hundred trees to a desyatin. I mean the desyatin now used. Wait! If we take the number to be six hundred--or, let us say, six hundred and fifty trees, how many trees are there on one hundred and five desyatins?" Porfiry Vladimirych takes a sheet of paper and multiplies 105 by 65 and gets 6,825 trees. "Now, see here, if I were to sell all this timber, do you think I can get ten rubles a tree?" Old Ilya shakes his head.