To make things worse, there was a sudden sound of dogs howling, at first subdued and uncertain, then loud, two dogs howling together.  I had never attached significance to such omens as the howling of dogs or the shrieking of owls, but on that occasion it sent a pang to my heart, and I hastened to explain the howl to myself.

“It’s nonsense,” I thought, “the influence of one organism on another.  The intensely strained condition of my nerves has infected my wife, Liza, the dog—­that is all....  Such infection explains presentiments, forebodings....”

When a little later I went back to my room to write a prescription for Liza, I no longer thought I should die at once, but only had such a weight, such a feeling of oppression in my soul that I felt actually sorry that I had not died on the spot.  For a long time I stood motionless in the middle of the room, pondering what to prescribe for Liza.  But the moans overhead ceased, and I decided to prescribe nothing, and yet I went on standing there....

There was a deathlike stillness, such a stillness, as some author has expressed it, “it rang in one’s ears.”  Time passed slowly; the streaks of moonlight on the window-sill did not shift their position, but seemed as though frozen....  It was still some time before dawn.

But the gate in the fence creaked, some one stole in and, breaking a twig from one of those scraggy trees, cautiously tapped on the window with it.

“Nikolay Stepanovitch,” I heard a whisper.  “Nikolay Stepanovitch.”

I opened the window, and fancied I was dreaming:  under the window, huddled against the wall, stood a woman in a black dress, with the moonlight bright upon her, looking at me with great eyes.  Her face was pale, stern, and weird-looking in the moonlight, like marble, her chin was quivering.

“It is I,” she said—­“I...  Katya.”

In the moonlight all women’s eyes look big and black, all people look taller and paler, and that was probably why I had not recognized her for the first minute.

“What is it?”

“Forgive me!” she said.  “I suddenly felt unbearably miserable...  I couldn’t stand it, so came here.  There was a light in your window and... and I ventured to knock....  I beg your pardon.  Ah! if you knew how miserable I am!  What are you doing just now?”

“Nothing....  I can’t sleep.”

“I had a feeling that there was something wrong, but that is nonsense.”

Her brows were lifted, her eyes shone with tears, and her whole face was lighted up with the familiar look of trustfulness which I had not seen for so long.

“Nikolay Stepanovitch,” she said imploringly, stretching out both hands to me, “my precious friend, I beg you, I implore you....  If you don’t despise my affection and respect for you, consent to what I ask of you.”

“What is it?”

“Take my money from me!”

“Come! what an idea!  What do I want with your money?”