cough had
a long-drawn-out, creaking sound.

Pashka liked one peculiarity about him; when he drew the air in as
he coughed, something in his chest whistled and sang on different
notes.

"Grandfather, what is it whistles in you?" Pashka asked.

The old man made no answer. Pashka waited a little and asked:

"Grandfather, where is the fox?"

"What fox?"

"The live one."

"Where should it be? In the forest!"

A long time passed, but the doctor still did not appear. The nurse
brought in tea, and scolded Pashka for not having saved any bread
for his tea; the assistant came once more and set to work to wake
Mihailo. It turned blue outside the windows, the wards were lighted
up, but the doctor did not appear. It was too late now to go to the
fair and catch finches; Pashka stretched himself on his bed and
began thinking. He remembered the candy promised him by the doctor,
the face and voice of his mother, the darkness in his hut at home,
the stove, peevish granny Yegorovna . . . and he suddenly felt sad
and dreary. He remembered that his mother was coming for him next
day, smiled, and shut his eyes.

He was awakened by a rustling. In the next ward someone was stepping
about and speaking in a whisper. Three figures were moving about
Mihailo's bed in the dim light of the night-light and the ikon lamp.

"Shall we take him, bed and all, or without?" asked one of them.

"Without. You won't get through the door with the bed."

"He's died at the wrong time, the Kingdom of Heaven be his!"

One took Mihailo by his shoulders, another by his legs and lifted
him up: Mihailo's arms and the skirt of his dressing-gown hung
limply to the ground. A third--it was the peasant who looked like
a woman--crossed himself, and all three tramping clumsily with
their feet and stepping on Mihailo's skirts, went out of the ward.

There came the whistle and humming on different notes from the chest
of the old man who was asleep. Pashka listened, peeped at the dark
windows, and jumped out of bed in terror.

"Ma-a-mka!" he moaned in a deep bass.

And without waiting for an answer, he rushed into the next ward.
There the darkness was dimly lighted up by a night-light and the
ikon lamp; the patients, upset by the death of Mihailo, were sitting
on their bedsteads: their dishevelled figures, mixed up with the
shadows, looked broader, taller, and seemed to be growing bigger
and bigger; on the furthest bedstead in the corner, where it was
darke