“Th—there—in that room—just at the door, I seemed to see a ghost!” “Whose ghost?” asked Velchaninoff, pausing a minute before putting the question. “Natalia Vasilievna’s!” Velchaninoff jumped out of bed and walked to the door, whence he could see into the room opposite, across the passage. There were no curtains in that room, so that it was much lighter than his own. “There’s nothing there at all. You are drunk; lie down again!” he said, and himself set the example, rolling his blanket around him. Pavel Pavlovitch said nothing, but lay down as he was told. “Did you ever see any ghosts before?” asked Velchaninoff suddenly, ten minutes later. “I think I saw one once,” said Pavel Pavlovitch in the same low voice; after which there was silence once more. Velchaninoff was not sure whether he had been asleep or not, but an hour or so had passed, when suddenly he was wide awake again. Was it a rustle that awoke him? He could not tell; but one thing was evident—in the midst of the profound darkness of the room something white stood before him; not quite close to him, but about the middle of the room. He sat up in bed, and stared for a full minute. “Is that you, Pavel Pavlovitch?” he asked. His voice sounded very weak. There was no reply; but there was not the slightest doubt of the fact that someone was standing there. “Is that you, Pavel Pavlovitch?” cried Velchaninoff again, louder this time; in fact, so loud that if the former had been asleep in bed he must have started up and answered. But there was no reply again. It seemed to Velchaninoff that the white figure had approached nearer to him. Then something strange happened; something seemed to “let go” within Velchaninoff’s system, and he commenced to shout at the top of his voice, just as he had done once before this evening, in the wildest and maddest way possible, panting so that he could hardly articulate his words: “If you—drunken ass that you are—dare to think that you could frighten _me_, I’ll turn my face to the wall, and not look round once the whole night, to show you how little I am afraid of you—a fool like you—if you stand there from now till morning! I despise you!” So saying, Velchaninoff twisted round with his face to the wall, rolled his blanket round him, and lay motionless, as though turned to stone. A deathlike stillness supervened. Did the ghost stand where it was, or had it moved? He could not tell; but his heart beat, and beat, and beat—At least five minutes went by, and then, not a couple of paces from his bed, there came the feeble voice of Pavel Pavlovitch: “I got up, Alexey Ivanovitch, to look for a little water. I couldn’t find any, and was just going to look about nearer your bed——” “Then why didn’t you answer when I called?” cried Velchaninoff angrily, after a minute’s pause. “I was frightened; you shouted so, you alarmed me!” “You’ll find a caraffe and glass over there, on the little table. Light a candle.”