chest of drawers.

Then he went up to the table where there lay a pile of his pupils'
exercise-books, and picking out Babkin's, sat down and fell to
contemplating the beautiful childish handwriting. . . .

And meantime, while he was examining the exercise-books, the district
doctor was sitting in the next room and telling his wife in a whisper
that a man ought not to have been allowed to go out to dinner who
had not in all probability more than a week to live.


ENEMIES

BETWEEN nine and ten on a dark September evening the only son of
the district doctor, Kirilov, a child of six, called Andrey, died
of diphtheria. Just as the doctor's wife sank on her knees by the
dead child's bedside and was overwhelmed by the first rush of despair
there came a sharp ring at the bell in the entry.

All the servants had been sent out of the house that morning on
account of the diphtheria. Kirilov went to open the door just as
he was, without his coat on, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without
wiping his wet face or his hands which were scalded with carbolic.
It was dark in the entry and nothing could be distinguished in the
man who came in but medium height, a white scarf, and a large,
extremely pale face, so pale that its entrance seemed to make the
passage lighter.

"Is the doctor at home?" the newcomer asked quickly.