All becomes quiet; everything seems to have come to a halt, and to be pressing close in sleep to the motionless earth. I too grow drowsy, and have a vision amid which my mind returns to the donations which I have received that day, and sees them swell and multiply and increase in weight until I feel their bulk pressing upon me like a tumulus of the steppes. Next, the coppery notes of a bell jar in my ears, and, struck at random intervals, go floating away into the darkness. It is the hour of midnight. Soon, scattered drops of rain begin to patter down upon the dry thatch of the hut and the dust in the street outside, while a cricket continues chirping as though it were hurriedly relating a tale. Also, I hear filtering forth into the darkness a softly gulped, eager whispering. "Think," says one of the voices, "what it must mean to have to go tramping about without work, or only with work for another to do!" The young fellow who has been so soundly thrashed replies in a dull voice: "I know nothing of you." "More softly, more softly!" urges the woman. "What is it you want?" "I want NOTHING. It is merely that I am sorry for you as a man yet young and strong. You see--well, I have not lived with my eyes shut. That is why I say, come with me." "But come whither?" "To the coast, where I know there to be beautiful plots of land for the asking. You yourself can see how good the land hereabout is. Well, there land better still is to be obtained." "Liar!" "More softly, more softly!" again urges the woman. "Moreover, I am not bad-looking, and can manage things well, and do any sort of work. Hence you and I might live quite peacefully and happily, and come, eventually, to have a place of our own. Yes, and I could bear and rear you a child. Only see how fit I am. Only feel this breast of mine." The young fellow snorts, and I begin to find the situation oppressive, and to long to let the couple know that I am not asleep. Curiosity, however, prevents me, and I continue listening to the strange, arresting dialogue. "Wait a little," whispers the woman with a gasp. "Do not play with me, for I am not that sort of woman. Yes, I mean what I say. Let be!" Rudely, roughly the young fellow replies: "Then don't run after me. A woman who runs after a man, and plays the whore with him, is--" "Less noise, please--less noise, I beg of you, or we shall be heard, and I shall be put to shame!" "Doesn't it put you to shame to be offering yourself to me like this?" A silence ensues, save that the young fellow goes on snorting and fidgeting, and the raindrops continue to fall with the same reluctance, the same indolence, as ever. Then once more the woman's voice is heard through the pattering. "Perhaps," says the voice, "you have guessed that I am seeking a husband? Yes, I AM seeking one--a good, steady muzhik." "But I am NOT a good, steady muzhik." "Fie, fie!" "What?" he sniggers. "A husband for you? The impudence of you! A 'husband'! Go along!"