lelechka was dressed, placed in a little coffin, and carried into the parlour. serafima aleksandrovna was standing by the coffin and looking dully at her dead child. sergey modestovich went to his wife and, consoling her with cold, empty words, tried to draw her away from the coffin. serafima aleksandrovna smiled.

“go away,” she said quietly. “lelechka is playing. she’ll be up in a minute.”

“sima, my dear, don’t agitate yourself,” said sergey modestovich in a whisper. “you must resign yourself to your fate.”

“she’ll be up in a minute,” persisted serafima aleksandrovna, her eyes fixed on the dead little girl.

sergey modestovich looked round him cautiously: he was afraid of the unseemly and of the ridiculous.

“sima, don’t agitate yourself,” he repeated. “this would be a miracle, and miracles do not happen in the nineteenth century.”

no sooner had he said these words than sergey modestovich felt their irrelevance to what had happened. he was confused and annoyed.

he took his wife by the arm, and cautiously led her away from the coffin. she did not oppose him.

her face seemed tranquil and her eyes were dry. she went into the nursery and began to walk round the room, looking into those places where lelechka used to hide herself. she walked all about the room, and bent now and then to look under the table or under the bed, and kept on repeating cheerfully: “where is my little one? where is my lelechka?”

after she had walked round the room once she began to make her quest anew. fedosya, motionless, with dejected face, sat in a corner, and looked frightened at her mistress; then she suddenly burst out sobbing, and she wailed loudly:

“she hid herself, and hid herself, our lelechka, our angelic little soul!”

serafima aleksandrovna trembled, paused, cast a perplexed look at fedosya, began to weep, and left the nursery quietly.