At times, apparently, she recollected something; but the memories of the past came incoherently, in fragments. Her attention could not concentrate on one point. It jumped from one remote memory to another. Yet sometimes she would be struck by something singular, not joy--her past was very scant in joys--but some grievance, some abuse, bitter and unbearable. Then sudden anger would flare up, anguish would creep into her heart, and tears come to her eyes. She would weep grievously, painfully, the weeping of piteous old age, when tears flow as if under the load of a nightmare. But even while her tears were flowing, her mind unconsciously continued to work in its usual way, and her thoughts drifted imperceptibly away from the cause of her mood, so that in a few minutes the old woman was wondering what had been the matter with her. Altogether, she lived as if not participating in life personally, but solely because in those ruins there were still left a few odds and ends which had to be collected, recorded, and accounted for. While these odds and ends were present, life went its way compelling the ruin to perform all the external functions necessary to keep that half-asleep existence from crumbling to dust. But if the days passed in unconscious slumber, the nights were sheer torment. At night Arina Petrovna was _afraid;_ she was afraid of thieves, of ghosts, of devils, of all that was the product of her education and life. And the defenses of the place were very poor, for beside the two tottering women domestics Pogorelka had a night-watch in the person of the lame little peasant Fedoseyushka, who for two rubles a month came from the village to guard the manor-house, and usually slept in the vestibule, coming out at the appointed hours to strike the steel plate. In the cattle-yard, it is true, there lived a few farm hands, men and women, but the cattle house was about fifty yards away and it was not easy to summon any one from there.