The sick driver remained lying on the stove in the stifling hut. Unrelieved by coughing, he turned over on the other side with an effort, and was quiet. All day till evening, men were coming and going and dining in the hut; there was no sound from the sick man. At nightfall, the cook clambered up into the stove and reached across his legs to get a sheepskin. “Don’t you be angry with me, Nastasya,” said the sick man; “I shall soon clear out of your place.”

“That’s all right, that’s all right; why, I didn’t mean it,” muttered Nastasya. “But what is it that’s wrong with you, uncle? Tell me about it.”

“All my inside’s wasted away. God knows what it is.”

“My word! and does your throat hurt when you cough!”

“It hurts me all over. My death is at hand⁠—that’s what it is. Oh, oh, oh!” moaned the sick man.

“Cover your legs up like this,” said Nastasya, pulling a coat over him as she crept off the stove.