A sigh issued from the rags. Arina was evidently still sleepy, and unwilling to exchange the warmth of the bed for the outside cold. “Arina, have we any wood?” “Wood?” answered a voice as if from a tomb, “perhaps enough to heat one stove.” “Good. Get up and light the fire in Mitia’s room. At once, do you hear? He’ll be getting up soon.” Arina’s nose appeared from under the bedclothes. “In Mitia’s room? His was heated yesterday. Perhaps it would be better to have a fire in the bedroom. It hasn’t had one for two days.” “No, no, no. Mitia’s, do you hear? Mitia’s room must be warm.” Arina growled her disapproval, nevertheless she got up as soon as Spiridonoff left the room, and after putting on all the rags which had served as her bed covering, she collected the wood which lay under the kitchen table. “Devils--Anathemas,” she grunted, but in such tones that no one could hear her. “Call themselves gentlefolks--keep a cook indeed--haven’t money enough to buy a log of wood. Mitia is the only one who is kept warm.” Spiridonoff went into the bedroom, and letting down the cambric bed-curtain, lit a candle. He had on a coat of fox fur, so old that it hung in tatters, and could only be worn for domestic work. He sat down by the table, took a pen, and began writing with half frozen fingers. From time to time he laid down his pen, breathed on his hands, warmed them by the candle flame, and then resumed his work. In half an hour he went to see how Mitia’s stove was getting on. It was beginning to feel warm. “Arina!” again ordered Spiridonoff, “take a piatak” (about three cents). “Here is a piatak. Run to the little store and buy some milk and boil it. Mitia is going to get up, and it must be ready.” Arina muttered that she didn’t care, milk or no milk, boil or not boil--yet she started off to buy it just the same. Spiridonoff continued to write, warm his hands by the candle, and write again. Arina came to announce that the milk was boiling. “Aha! Good!” The old man rose and softly opened the door to the left. The dim light thrown by the candle from the bedroom disclosed a very small room containing only three articles of furniture--a child’s bed, a chair, and a music-stand. In the bed the little virtuoso of last night, Mitia Spiridonoff slumbered sweetly with the blanket drawn up to his chin. The chair served to hold his clothes, the stand his music, while on the floor stood the case containing his violin. The room was not cold. The stove had not had time to get chilled off after yesterday’s fire, before the warmth of the new fire made itself felt. Spiridonoff took the candle, and shutting the bedroom door, cautiously sat down on the little bed. “Mitenka, Mitenka!” he called in a tender low voice. Mitia opened his eyes with an effort, but immediately closed them again. “Mitenka, don’t you want to get up? Eh? Won’t you take some hot milk? Eh?”