“Dearest,” said the little princess after breakfast on the morning of the nineteenth March, and her downy little lip rose from old habit, but as sorrow was manifest in every smile, the sound of every word, and even every footstep in that house since the terrible news had come, so now the smile of the little princess⁠—influenced by the general mood though without knowing its cause⁠—was such as to remind one still more of the general sorrow.

“Dearest, I’m afraid this morning’s fruschtique 48 ⁠—as Fóka the cook calls it⁠—has disagreed with me.”

“What is the matter with you, my darling? You look pale. Oh, you are very pale!” said Princess Márya in alarm, running with her soft, ponderous steps up to her sister-in-law.

“Your excellency, should not Márya Bogdánovna be sent for?” said one of the maids who was present. (Márya Bogdánovna was a midwife from the neighboring town, who had been at Bald Hills for the last fortnight.)