They lay down to sleep in silence; and the old people, troubled and excited by their reminiscences, thought how precious was youth, of which, whatever it might have been like, nothing was left in the memory but what was living, joyful, touching, and how terribly cold was death, which was not far off, better not think of it!  The lamp died down.  And the dusk, and the two little windows sharply defined by the moonlight, and the stillness and the creak of the cradle, reminded them for some reason that life was over, that nothing one could do would bring it back....  You doze off, you forget yourself, and suddenly someone touches your shoulder or breathes on your cheek—­and sleep is gone; your body feels cramped, and thoughts of death keep creeping into your mind.  You turn on the other side:  death is forgotten, but old dreary, sickening thoughts of poverty, of food, of how dear flour is getting, stray through the mind, and a little later again you remember that life is over and you cannot bring it back....

“Oh, Lord!” sighed the cook.

Someone gave a soft, soft tap at the window.  It must be Fyokla come back.  Olga got up, and yawning and whispering a prayer, opened the door, then drew the bolt in the outer room, but no one came in; only from the street came a cold draught and a sudden brightness from the moonlight.  The street, still and deserted, and the moon itself floating across the sky, could be seen at the open door.

“Who is there?” called Olga.

“I,” she heard the answer—­“it is I.”

Near the door, crouching against the wall, stood Fyokla, absolutely naked.  She was shivering with cold, her teeth were chattering, and in the bright moonlight she looked very pale, strange, and beautiful.  The shadows on her, and the bright moonlight on her skin, stood out vividly, and her dark eyebrows and firm, youthful bosom were defined with peculiar distinctness.

“The ruffians over there undressed me and turned me out like this,” she said.  “I’ve come home without my clothes... naked as my mother bore me.  Bring me something to put on.”

“But go inside!” Olga said softly, beginning to shiver, too.

“I don’t want the old folks to see.”  Granny was, in fact, already stirring and muttering, and the old father asked:  “Who is there?” Olga brought her own smock and skirt, dressed Fyokla, and then both went softly into the inner room, trying not to make a noise with the door.

“Is that you, you sleek one?” Granny grumbled angrily, guessing who it was.  “Fie upon you, nightwalker!...  Bad luck to you!”

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” whispered Olga, wrapping Fyokla up; “it’s all right, dearie.”

All was stillness again.  They always slept badly; everyone was kept awake by something worrying and persistent:  the old man by the pain in his back, Granny by anxiety and anger, Marya by terror, the children by itch and hunger.  Now, too, their sleep was troubled; they kept turning over from one side to the other, talking in their sleep, getting up for a drink.