casements. Probably he wished to take his last look at the
daylight and the sun and all God's world. I pulled back the
curtain, but the opening day was as dull and mournful--looking as
though it had been the fast-flickering life of the poor invalid.
Of sunshine there was none. Clouds overlaid the sky as with a
shroud of mist, and everything looked sad, rainy, and threatening
under a fine drizzle which was beating against the window-panes,
and streaking their dull, dark surfaces with runlets of cold,
dirty moisture. Only a scanty modicum of daylight entered to war
with the trembling rays of the ikon lamp. The dying man threw me
a wistful look, and nodded. The next moment he had passed away.

The funeral was arranged for by Anna Thedorovna. A plain coffin
was bought, and a broken-down hearse hired; while, as security
for this outlay, she seized the dead man's books and other
articles. Nevertheless, the old man disputed the books with her,
and, raising an uproar, carried off as many of them as he could--
stuffing his pockets full, and even filling his hat. Indeed, he
spent the next three days with them thus, and refused to let them
leave his sight even when it was time for him to go to church.
Throughout he acted like a man bereft of sense and memory. With
quaint assiduity he busied himself about the bier--now
straightening the candlestick on the dead man's breast, now
snuffing and lighting the other candles. Clearly his thoughts
were powerless to remain long fixed on any subject. Neither my
mother nor Anna Thedorovna were present at the requiem, for the
former was ill and the latter was at loggerheads with the old
man. Only myself and the father were there. During the service a
sort of panic, a sort of premonition of the future, came over me,
and I could hardly hold myself upright. At length the coffin had