A decrepit old hunchback woman, bent like the crook of an umbrella handle, started from her bed on seeing him, and straightened the handkerchief round her head. She blinked her red eyes in alarm. "Where is the patient?" the doctor asked. "Have you a samovar?" The old woman was so perturbed that she did not grasp the meaning of his words. "Have you a samovar? Can you make me some tea?" "There is the samovar; but as to sugar----" "No sugar? What a nuisance!" "None, unless Walkowa has some, because the young lady----" "Where is the young lady?" "Poor thing! she's lying in the next room." "Has she been ill long?" "She's been ailing as long as a fortnight. She was taken bad with something." The woman half opened the door of the next room. "Wait a moment; I must warm myself," the doctor said angrily, taking off his fur coat. It was not difficult to get warm in that stuffy little den; the stove threw out a terrific heat, so that the doctor went into the "young lady's" room as quickly as possible. The lamp that was standing on a table beside the invalid's pillow had been turned low. It was not possible to distinguish the schoolmistress's features, as a large book had been placed as a screen, and the shadow from it fell on her face. The doctor carefully turned up the lamp, removed the book, and looked at her face. She was a young girl. She had sunk into a feverish sleep; her face, neck and hands, were flushed scarlet and covered with a rash. Her ashen-blonde hair, which was exceptionally thick, was tossed round her face, and lay in rich tresses on the pillow. Her hands were plucking deliriously at the coverlet. Dr. Paweł bent right down to the sick girl's face, and suddenly, with a voice stifled by emotion, repeated: "Panna Stanisława, Panna Stanisława, Panna St----" Slowly and with difficulty the sick girl raised her eyelids, but closed them again immediately. She stretched herself, drew her head from one end of the pillow to the other, and gave a painful low moan. She opened her mouth with an effort and gasped for breath. The doctor looked round the bare, whitewashed room. He noticed the windows which did not sufficiently keep out the draught, the girl's shoes, shrivelled with having been wet through constantly, the piles of books lying on the table, the sofa and everywhere. "Oh, you mad girl, you foolish girl!" he whispered, wringing his hands. In distress and alarm he examined her, and took her temperature with trembling hands. "Typhus!" he murmured, turning pale. He pressed his hand to his throat to stifle the tears which were choking him like little balls of cotton. He knew that he could do nothing for her--that, in fact, nothing could be done for her. Suddenly he gave a bitter laugh when he remembered that he would be obliged to send the twenty miles to Obrzydłówek for the quinine and antipyrin he wanted.