“What of the strawberries?” Nicholas Semyónovitch asked timidly.
“What of the strawberries? … It’s you that fed him on them, and here am I, not having a wink of sleep all night … and the child will die!”
“Oh, come, he won’t die,” said the doctor, with a smile. “Just a small dose of bismuth, and careful diet. … Let’s give him some now.”
“He’s asleep,” she said.
“Oh, then, it’s better not to disturb him. I’ll call in again tomorrow.”
“Please do!”
The doctor went away, and the husband, left alone with his wife, was long unable to soothe her. It was broad daylight before he fell asleep.
Early that morning, in the neighbouring village, the lads were returning with the horses they had pastured all night. Some of them had only the one they rode; others were leading a second horse as well, while the colts and two-year-olds ran free behind.
Taráska Resounóf, a lad of twelve in a sheepskin coat, with a cap on his head but barefooted, seated on a piebald mare and leading a gelding by a cord, outdistanced all the others and trotted up the hill to the village. A well-fed piebald colt ran, kicking up its legs (which looked as if they had white stockings on) to right and left. Taráska rode up to his hut, tied the horses to the gate, and entered the passage.
“Hullo, you there … oversleeping yourselves!” he cried to his sisters and brother, who were sleeping on some sacking in the passage.
Their mother, who had also slept there, was already up and milking the cow.