But if in this way events of recent days had acted on Augustinovich, how much more had they acted on Yosef! Out of his long illness he rose a new man altogether. He had no longer that lively, active, unbending temperament. In his movements there was slowness, in his look heaviness, and as it were indolence. Augustinovich attributed this, and justly, to the weakness unavoidable after such an illness, but soon he noticed in the sick man other things foreign to him before. A certain marvellous indifference approaching apathy broke through his words. He began to look at the world again, but in a manner entirely different from that in which he had looked at it earlier. He seemed to be capable of no vivacious feeling. It was disagreeable to look at him; these changes had touched not merely his moral side, he had changed physically also. His hair had grown thin, his face was white and emaciated, his eyes had a sleepy look, he had lost his former brightness. Lying whole days without movement, he looked for hours together at one point in the ceiling, or slept. The presence of any one did not seem to concern him. All this alarmed Augustinovich, especially when he considered that in spite of the speedy return of physical strength these symptoms, if they yielded, yielded very slowly. He sighed when he remembered the former Yosef, and he labored to rouse the present one, but the labor was difficult. A certain time Augustinovich, sitting by the bed of the sick man, read aloud to him. Yosef was lying on his back; according to habit he was looking at the ceiling. Evidently he was thinking of something else, or was thinking of nothing, for after a certain time annoyance was expressed on his face. Augustinovich stopped reading. "Dost wish to sleep?" "No, but the book wearies me." Augustinovich was reading "Dame aux Camélias." "Still, there is life and truth here." "Yes, but there is not judgment to the value of a copper." "Still, the book raises the question of such women!" "But whom do such women concern?" "They once concerned thee." Yosef said nothing; on his face a slight thoughtfulness was evident. After a time he asked,-- "What is happening with Helena? Has she been here?" Augustinovich was confused. "She has been here, she has been here." "Well, and now?" "That is--yes--she is sick, very sick." Yosef's face continued indifferent. "What is the matter with her?" asked he, leisurely. "With her?--She--Well, I will tell thee the truth, only be not frightened." "Well?" "Helena is no longer alive--she was drowned." Some sort of indefinite impression shot over Yosef's face; he made an effort as if to rise in the bed, but after a while he dropped his head on the pillow. "By accident or design?" asked he. "Rest, old man, rest; it is not permitted thee to talk much. Later I will tell everything." Yosef turned to the wall and sank into silence. At that moment a servant of the hospital entered.