“God is merciful,” the priest went on, when she was a little calmer. “In my parish, I must tell you, there was a man ill, much worse than Marya Dmitryevna, and a simple artisan cured him with herbs in a very short time. And this same artisan is in Moscow now, indeed. I told Vassily Dmitryevitch⁠—he might try him. Anyway, it would be a comfort to the sick woman. With God all things are possible.”

“No, she can’t live,” said the old lady; “if it could have been me, but God takes her.”

The sick woman’s husband hid his face in his hands, and ran out of the room.

The first person that met him in the corridor was a boy of six years old, who was running at full speed after a little girl younger than himself.

“Shouldn’t I take the children to see their mamma?” asked the nurse.

“No, she doesn’t want to see them. It upsets her.”