“If only my husband was at home! … But now, who can I send? They’ve all gone to the forest for firewood.”
“I can do nothing more here,” said the doctor; and we went away.
I heard afterwards that the woman found someone to send for the priest, who had just time to administer the Sacrament to the dying man.
We drove home in silence, both, I think, experiencing the same feeling.
“What was the matter with him?” I asked at length.
“Inflammation of the lungs. I did not expect it to end so quickly. He had a very strong constitution, but the conditions were deadly. With 105 degrees of fever, he went and sat outside the hut, where there were only 20 degrees.”
Again we drove on in silence for a long time.
“I noticed no bedding or pillow on the oven,” said I.
“Nothing!” replied the doctor. And, evidently knowing what I was thinking about, he went on:
“Yesterday I was at Kroutoe to see a woman who has had a baby. To examine her properly, as was necessary, she should have been placed so that she could lie stretched out full length; but there was no place in the whole hut where that could be done.”
Again we were silent, and again we probably both had the same thoughts. We reached home in silence. At the porch stood a fine pair of horses, harnessed tandem to a carpet-upholstered sledge. The handsome coachman was dressed in a sheepskin coat, and wore a thick fur cap. They belonged to my son, who had driven over from his estate.