ey leased a theatre
in the town for the whole winter and sublet it for short periods to a
Little Russian theatrical company, to a conjuror and to the local
amateur players.

Olenka grew fuller and was always beaming with contentment; while
Kukin grew thinner and yellower and complained of his terrible losses,
though he did fairly well the whole winter. At night he coughed, and
she gave him raspberry syrup and lime water, rubbed him with eau de
Cologne, and wrapped him up in soft coverings.

"You are my precious sweet," she said with perfect sincerity, stroking
his hair. "You are such a dear."

At Lent he went to Moscow to get his company together, and, while
without him, Olenka was unable to sleep. She sat at the window the
whole time, gazing at the stars. She likened herself to the hens that
are also uneasy and unable to sleep when their rooster is out of the
coop. Kukin was detained in Moscow. He wrote he would be back during
Easter Week, and in his letters discussed arrangements already for the
Tivoli. But late one night, before Easter Monday, there was an
ill-omened knocking at the wicket-gate. It was like a knocking on a
barrel--boom, boom, boom! The sleepy cook ran barefooted, plashing
through the puddles, to open the gate.

"Open the gate, please," said some one in a hollow bass voice. "I have
a telegram for you."

Olenka had received telegrams from her husband before; but this time,
somehow, she was numbed with terror. She opened the telegram with
trembling hands and read:

"Ivan Petrovich died suddenly to-day. Awaiting propt orders for
wuneral Tuesday."

That was the way the telegram was written--"wuneral"--and another
unintelligible word--"propt." The telegram was signed by the manager
of the opera company.

"My dearest!" Olenka burst out sobbing. "Vanichka, my dearest, my
sweetheart. Why did I ever meet you? Why did I ever get to know you
and love you? To whom have you abandoned your poor Olenka, your poor,
unhappy Olenka?"

Kukin was buried on Tuesday in the Vagankov Cemetery in Moscow. Olenka
returned home on Wednesday; and as soon as she entered her house she
threw herself on her bed and broke into such loud sobbing that she
could be heard in the street and in the neighbouring yards.

"The darling!" said the neighbours, crossing themselves. "How Olga
Semyonovna, the poor darling, is grieving!"

Three months afterwards Olenka was returning home from mass,
downhearted and in deep mourning. Be