tered as he got
back into bed, and blew out his light. Again profound darkness reigned
in the room.

Aratoff made up his mind to go to sleep this time.... But a new
sensation had cropped up within him. It seemed to him as though some one
were standing in the middle of the room, not far from him, and breathing
in a barely perceptible manner. He hastily turned round, opened his
eyes.... But what could be seen in that impenetrable darkness?--He began
to fumble for a match on his night-stand ... and suddenly it seemed to
him as though some soft, noiseless whirlwind dashed across the whole
room, above him, through him--and the words: "'Tis I!" rang plainly in
his ears. "'Tis I! 'Tis I!..."

Several moments passed before he succeeded in lighting a match.

Again there was no one in the room, and he no longer heard anything
except the violent beating of his own heart. He drank a glass of water,
and remained motionless, with his head resting on his hand.

He said to himself: "I will wait. Either this is all nonsense ... or she
is here. She will not play with me like a cat with a mouse!" He waited,
waited a long time ... so long that the hand on which he was propping
his head became numb ... but not a single one of his previous sensations
was repeated. A couple of times his eyes closed.... He immediately
opened them ... at least, it seemed to him that he opened them.
Gradually they became riveted on the door and so remained. The candle
burned out and the room became dark once more ... but the door gleamed
like a long, white spot in the midst of the gloom. And lo! that spot
began to move, it contracted, vanished ... and in its place, on the
threshold, a female form made its appearance. Aratoff looked at it
intently ... it was Clara! And this time she was gazing straight at him,
she moved toward him.... On her head was a wreath of red roses.... It
kept undulating, rising....

Before him stood his aunt in her nightcap, with a broad red ribbon, and
in a white wrapper.

"Platosha!" he enunciated with difficulty.--"Is it you?"

"It is I," replied Platonida Ivanovna.... "It is I, Yashyonotchek, it is
I."

"Why have you come?"

"Why, thou didst wake me. At first thou seemedst to be moaning all the
while ... and then suddenly thou didst begin to shout: 'Save me! Help
me!'"

"I shouted?"

"Yes, thou didst shout, and so hoarsely: 'Save me!'--I thought: 'O Lord!
Can he be ill?' So I entered. Art thou well?"

"Perfectly well.