"Another case from Petounukoff's house!" said the driver of the van in answer to a question as to the quarter from which he had brought the new patient. "Tschischik!" cried Orloff in a tone of pain. "Good heavens! it is Senka. Little imp, don't you recognize me?" "Yes, I do," said Tschischik with an effort, as he lay on the stretcher, turning up his eyes to catch a glimpse of Orloff, who was standing behind him. "Ah! you merry little bird! How did this happen?" asked Orloff. He was quite upset at the sight of the lad, who was completely exhausted with the painful disease. "Why could it not spare this Innocent child?" he cried out, shaking his head slowly, and as if concentrating in this cry all his tense horror. Tschischik was silent, and shivered from head to foot. "I am so cold!" he said, as they laid him on the bed and took off his ragged, paint-stained clothes. "We'll soon pop you into a nice hot bath!" Orloff promised him. "We'll make you well again in a hurry." Tschischik shook his head. "No, Uncle Grigori.... I shall never be well again," he whispered in a dead voice.... "Bend down towards me.... I stole the accordion ... it is hidden under some wood in the woodshed.... The day before yesterday ... I played on it for the first time.... Oh! what a beauty it is I ... Directly after I had these pains in my stomach.... They were a punishment for the sin.... Give it back, Uncle Grigori.... The accordion-player had a sister.... Ah!... A ... ah!" His whole body shook and twisted with violent cramps. All they could do was done for the little lad, but the weakened body was unable to guard the spark of life. That same evening Orloff carried Tschischik's body to the mortuary. He felt as if he had himself received a blow or an injury. He tried to straighten out the little body, but could not succeed in doing so. He left the place with a stunned feeling, in a dark, melancholy mood, with the image of the once bright and cheerful, but now so frightfully disfigured boy, constantly before his eyes. He had the oppressive consciousness of his own helplessness when face to face with death. How much trouble and care he had lavished on poor little Tschischik, and how anxious the doctors had been to cure the lad!... But in spite of it all he had to die!... It all seemed so unjust!... He himself also, Grigori Orloff, would have some day to pack up his traps in the same way, leaving nothing behind. Then all would be over. A shudder ran through him, and he immediately experienced a feeling of loneliness, of being forsaken. He felt the need of talking to some understanding person about it all. He had often tried to get a long talk with one of the students, but no one here had time to philosophize. So there was nothing for it but to talk to his wife. In a heavy, oppressed mood he sought out Matrona. She was just off duty, and was washing herself in a corner of the room. The samovar stood ready, simmering and steaming on the table.