--to get there in good time, do you hear? I'll take you."

The postman opened his eyes. Warmed and relaxed by his first sweet
sleep, and not yet quite awake, he saw as through a mist the white neck
and the immovable, alluring eyes of the sexton's wife. He closed his
eyes and smiled as though he had been dreaming it all.

"Come, how can you go in such weather!" he heard a soft feminine voice;
"you ought to have a sound sleep and it would do you good!"

"And what about the post?" said Savely anxiously. "Who's going to take
the post? Are you going to take it, pray, you?"

The postman opened his eyes again, looked at the play of the dimples
on Raissa's face, remembered where he was, and understood Savely.
The thought that he had to go out into the cold darkness sent a chill
shudder all down him, and he winced.

"I might sleep another five minutes," he said, yawning. "I shall be
late, anyway...."

"We might be just in time," came a voice from the outer room. "All days
are not alike; the train may be late for a bit of luck."

The postman got up, and stretching lazily began putting on his coat.

Savely positively neighed with delight when he saw his visitors were
getting ready to go.

"Give us a hand," the driver shouted to him as he lifted up a mail-bag.

The sexton ran out and helped him drag the post-bags into the yard. The
postman began undoing the knot in his hood. The sexton's wife gazed into
his eyes, and seemed trying to look right into his soul.

"You ought to have a cup of tea..." she said.

"I wouldn't say no... but, you see, they're getting ready," he assented.
"We are late, anyway."

"Do stay," she whispered, dropping her eyes and touching him by the
sleeve.

The postman got the knot undone at last and flung the hood over his
elbow, hesitating. He felt it comfortable standing by Raissa.

"What a... neck you've got!..." And he touched her neck with two
fingers. Seeing that she did not resist, he stroked her neck and
shoulders.

"I say, you are..."

"You'd better stay... have some tea."

"Where are you putting it?" The driver's voice could be heard outside.
"Lay it crossways."

"You'd better stay.... Hark how the wind howls."

And the postman, not yet quite awake, not yet quite able to shake off
the intoxicating sleep of youth and fatigue, was suddenly overwhelmed
by a desire for the sake of which mail-bags, postal trains... and
all things in the world, are forgotten. He glanced at the door