with this sensation come thoughts of the aimlessness of life, of
death, and of the darkness of the grave. . . . The thoughts are not
worth a brass farthing, but the expression of face must be fine. . . .

"While I was sitting and dozing, unable to bring myself to get up
--I was warm and comfortable--all at once, against the even
monotonous murmur of the sea, as though upon a canvas, sounds began
to grow distinct which drew my attention from myself. . . . Someone
was coming hurriedly along the avenue. Reaching the summer-house
this someone stopped, gave a sob like a little girl, and said in
the voice of a weeping child: 'My God, when will it all end! Merciful
Heavens!'

"Judging from the voice and the weeping I took it to be a little
girl of ten or twelve. She walked irresolutely into the summer-house,
sat down, and began half-praying, half-complaining aloud. . . .

"'Merciful God!' she said, crying, 'it's unbearable. It's beyond
all endurance! I suffer in silence, but I want to live too. . . .
Oh, my God! My God!'

"And so on in the same style.

"I wanted to look at the child and speak to her. So as not to
frighten her I first gave a loud sigh and coughed, then cautiously
struck a match. . . . There was a flash of bright light in the
darkness, which lighted up the weeping figure. It was Kisotchka!"

"Marvels upon marvels!" said Von Schtenberg with a sigh. "Black
night, the murmur of the sea; she in grief, he with a sensation of