saw
from his face that he, too, was expecting something dreadful. She
stretched out her head towards the dark window, where it seemed to
her some stranger was looking in, and howled.

"He is dying, Auntie!" said her master, and wrung his hands. "Yes,
yes, he is dying! Death has come into your room. What are we to
do?"

Pale and agitated, the master went back into his room, sighing and
shaking his head. Auntie was afraid to remain in the darkness, and
followed her master into his bedroom. He sat down on the bed and
repeated several times: "My God, what's to be done?"

Auntie walked about round his feet, and not understanding why she
was wretched and why they were all so uneasy, and trying to understand,
watched every movement he made. Fyodor Timofeyitch, who rarely left
his little mattress, came into the master's bedroom too, and began
rubbing himself against his feet. He shook his head as though he
wanted to shake painful thoughts out of it, and kept peeping
suspiciously under the bed.

The master took a saucer, poured some water from his wash-stand
into it, and went to the gander again.

"Drink, Ivan Ivanitch!" he said tenderly, setting the saucer before
him; "drink, darling."

But Ivan Ivanitch did not stir and did not open his eyes. His master
bent his head down to the saucer and dipped his beak into the water,
but the gander did not drink, he spread his wings wider than ever,
and his head remained lying in the saucer.

"No, there's nothing to be done now," sighed his master. "It's all
over. Ivan Ivanitch is gone!"

And shining drops, such as one sees on the window-pane when it
rains, trickled down his cheeks. Not understanding what was the
matter, Auntie and Fyodor Timofeyitch snuggled up to him and looked
with horror at the gander.

"Poor Ivan Ivanitch!" said the master, sighing mournfully. "And I
was dreaming I would take you in the spring into the country, and
would walk with you on the green grass. Dear creature, my good
comrade, you are no more! How shall I do without you now?"

It seemed to Auntie that the same thing would happen to her, that
is, that she too, there was no knowing why, would close her eyes,
stretch out her paws, open her mouth, and everyone would look at
her with horror. Apparently the same reflections were passing through
the brain of Fyodor Timofeyitch. Never before had the old cat been
so morose and gloomy.

It began to get light, and the unseen stranger who had so frighten