“She’s old, you know,” said the widow.
“Not older than I am,” replied I.
“Not older? Much older! People say she is ninety,” said the widow. “All her hair has come out. I cut it all off the other day.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Why, it had nearly all come out, so I cut it off!”
“Oh! … oh!” moaned the old woman; “oh! God has forgotten me! He does not take my soul. If the Lord won’t take it, it can’t go of itself! Oh! … oh! It must be for my sins! … I’ve nothing to moisten my throat. … If only I had a drop of tea to drink before I die. … Oh! … oh!”
The doctor entered the hut, and I said goodbye and went out into the street.
We got into the sledge, and drove to a small neighbouring village to see the doctor’s last patient, who had sent for him the day before. We went into the hut together.
The room was small, but clean; in the middle of it a cradle hung from the ceiling, and a woman stood rocking it energetically. At the table sat a girl of about eight, who gazed at us with surprised and frightened eyes.
“Where is he?” the doctor asked.
“On the oven,” replied the woman, not ceasing to rock the cradle.
The doctor climbed up, and, leaning over the patient, did something to him.
I drew nearer, and asked about the sick man’s condition.