day faded. the blue autumnal twilight spread over the earth and peeped in through the windows. a purple mist filled the room with vague, spectral shadows. outside was a white frost. a silvery moon triumphantly rode the clear cold over-arching sky.

ippolyte ippolytovich lay upon his sofa. he felt nothing. the space occupied by his body resembled only a great, dark, hollow bin in which there was—nothing! close by, a rat flopped across the floor, but the old man did not hear. a teasing autumnal fly settled on his eyebrow, he did not wink. from the withered toes to the withered legs, to the hips, stomach, chest, and heart, passed a faint, agreeable, scarcely noticeable numbness.

it was evening now and the room was dark; the mist gathered thick and threatening through the windows. outside in the crisp, frosty moonlight, it was bright. the old man's face—all over-grown with white hair—and his bald skull, had a death-like look.

vasena entered in her calm yet vigorous manner. her broad hips and deep bosom were only loosely covered by a red jacket.

"ippolyte ippolytovich, it is time for your meal," she called in a matter of fact tone.

but he did not reply, nor utter his usual "eh?"

they sent at once for the doctor, who felt his pulse, pressed a glass to his lips, then said in a low, solemn tone:

"he is dead."

vasena, standing by the door, and somewhat resembling a wild animal, answered calmly:

"well he wasn't so young as to…. haven't we all got to die! what is it to him now? he and his had everything in their day! dear lord, they had everything!"