"I am not dead . . ." thought Olga Mihalovna when she began to
understand her surroundings again, and when the pain was over.

A bright summer day looked in at the widely open windows; in the
garden below the windows, the sparrows and the magpies never ceased
chattering for one instant.

The drawers were shut now, her husband's bed had been made. There
was no sign of the midwife or of the maid, or of Varvara in the
room, only Pyotr Dmitritch was standing, as before, motionless by
the window looking into the garden. There was no sound of a child's
crying, no one was congratulating her or rejoicing, it was evident
that the little creature had not been born alive.

"Pyotr!"

Olga Mihalovna called to her husband.

Pyotr Dmitritch looked round. It seemed as though a long time must
have passed since the last guest had departed and Olga Mihalovna
had insulted her husband, for Pyotr Dmitritch was perceptibly thinner
and hollow-eyed.

"What is it?" he asked, coming up to the bed.

He looked away, moved his lips and smiled with childlike helplessness.

"Is it all over?" asked Olga Mihalovna.

Pyotr Dmitritch tried to make some answer, but his lips quivered