"How old was she altogether? Perhaps fifty. To die so young! It was worse than a person taking his own life, because every time a thing went out at the door, to the pawn-shop, a bit of her health and strength went with it. "She grew thinner and yellower day by day, and said she felt the marrow drying up in her bones; she knew that she would die. "How she loved the room and all its furniture! Whatever had to go, whether it were a chair or a bit of crockery or anything else, she washed it with her tears, and parted from it as a mother from her child; put her arms around it and nearly kissed it. 'Oho!' she would say, 'when I come to die, you won't be there in the room.' "Well, there; every woman is a fool. At one moment she's a Cossack in petticoats, and the next weaker than a child; because, really, whether you die with a chair or without a chair, what does it matter? "_Phê_," he interrupted himself, "what shall I think of next? Fancy letting one's thoughts wander like that, and my pace has slackened, too, thanks to the rubbish! "Come, soldier's feet, on with you!" he commanded. He looks round--snow on every hand; above, a gray sky with black patches--just like my under-coat, he thought, stuff patched with black sateen. Lord of the world, is it for want of "credit" up there, too? Meanwhile it is freezing. His beard and whiskers are ice. His body is fairly comfortable and his head is warm, he even feels the drops of sweat on his forehead; only his feet grow colder and weaker. He has not walked so very far, and yet he would like to rest, and he feels ashamed of himself. It is the first time he ever wanted to rest on an errand of two miles. He will not confess to himself that he is a man of nearly eighty, and his weariness not at all surprising. No, he must walk on--just walk on--for so long as one walks, one is walking, one gets on; the moment one gives way to temptation and rests, it's all over with one. One might easily get a chill, he says to frighten himself, and does all he can to shake off the craving for rest. "It isn't far now to the village; there I shall have time to sit down. "That's what I'll do. I won't go straight to the nobleman--one has to wait there for an hour outside; I'll go first to the Jew. "It's a good thing," he reflected, "that I am not afraid of the nobleman's dog. When they let him loose at night, it's dreadful. I've got my supper with me, and he likes cheese. It will be better to go first and get rested. I will go to the Jew and warm myself, and wash, and eat something." His mouth waters at the thought; he has had nothing to eat since early this morning; but that's nothing, he doesn't mind if he _is_ hungry; it is a proof that one is alive. Only his feet! Now he has only two versts more to walk, he can see the nobleman's great straw-covered shed, only his _feet_ cannot see it, and they want to rest.