"Pardon me. If I had not listened to you so long, I should at this moment be at Berlin and have entirely recovered." "What's to be done, my angel? it was impossible, as you know. But now if you would wait a month, you would be ever so much better; I could finish up my business, and we could take the children with us." "The children are well, and I am ill." "But just see here, my love, if in this weather you should grow worse on the road.... At least we should be at home." "What is the use of being at home?... _Die_ at home?" replied the invalid peevishly. But the word _die_ evidently startled her, and she turned upon her husband a supplicating and inquiring look. He dropped his eyes, and said nothing. The sick woman's mouth suddenly contracted in a childish fashion, and the tears sprang to her eyes. Her husband covered his face with his handkerchief, and silently turned from the carriage. "No, I will go," cried the invalid; and lifting her eyes to the sky, she clasped her hands, and began to whisper incoherent words. "My God! why must it be?" she said, and the tears flowed more violently. She prayed long and fervently, but still there was just the same sense of constriction and pain in her chest, just the same gray melancholy in the sky and the fields and the road; just the same autumnal mist, neither thicker nor more tenuous, but ever the same in its monotony, falling on the muddy highway, on the roofs, on the carriage, and on the sheep-skin coats of the drivers, who were talking in strong, gay voices, as they were oiling and adjusting the carriage. II. The coach was ready, but the driver loitered. He had gone into the driver's cottage,[89] where it was warm, close, dark, and suffocating; smelling of human occupation, of cooking bread, of cabbage, and of sheep-skin garments. [Footnote 89: _izbá._] Several drivers were in the room; the cook was engaged near the oven, on top of which lay a sick man wrapped up in pelts. "Uncle Khveódor! hey! Uncle Khveódor," called a young man, the driver, in a tulup, and with his knout in his belt, coming into the room, and addressing the sick man. "What do you want, rattlepate? What are you calling to Fyédka[90] for?" demanded one of the drivers. "There's your carriage waiting for you." [Footnote 90: Fyédka and Fyédya are diminutives of Feódor, Theodore.] "I want to borrow his boots. Mine are worn out," replied the young fellow, tossing back his curls and straightening his mittens in his belt. "Why? is he asleep? Say, Uncle Khveódor!" he insisted, going to the oven. "What is it?" a weak voice was heard saying, and a blowsy, emaciated face was lifted up from the oven. A broad, gaunt hand, bloodless and covered with hairs, pulled up his overcoat over the dirty shirt that covered his bony shoulder. "Give me something to drink, brother; what is it you want?" The young fellow handed him a small dish of water.