“I have thought of that myself,” sighed the old lady.  “The Heavenly Mother save and preserve him.  But the rain, the rain!”

In the morning the rain was not pattering on the panes, but the sky was still grey.  The trees stood looking mournful, and at every gust of wind they scattered drops.  The footprints on the muddy path, the ditches and the ruts were full of water.  Nadyezhda Filippovna made up her mind to go.

“Give him my love,” said the old lady, wrapping her daughter up.  “Tell him not to think too much about his cases. . . .  And he must rest.  Let him wrap his throat up when he goes out:  the weather—­ God help us!  And take him the chicken; food from home, even if cold, is better than at a restaurant.”

The daughter went away, saying that she would come back by an evening train or else next morning.

But she came back long before dinner-time, when the old lady was sitting on her trunk in her bedroom and drowsily thinking what to cook for her son-in-law’s supper.

Going into the room her daughter, pale and agitated, sank on the bed without uttering a word or taking off her hat, and pressed her head into the pillow.

“But what is the matter,” said the old lady in surprise, “why back so soon?  Where is Alexey Stepanovitch?”

Nadyezhda Filippovna raised her head and gazed at her mother with dry, imploring eyes.

“He is deceiving us, mamma,” she said.

“What are you saying?  Christ be with you!” cried the old lady in alarm, and her cap slipped off her head.  “Who is going to deceive us?  Lord, have mercy on us!”

“He is deceiving us, mamma!” repeated her daughter, and her chin began to quiver.

“How do you know?” cried the old lady, turning pale.

“Our flat is locked up.  The porter tells me that Alyosha has not been home once for these five days.  He is not living at home!  He is not at home, not at home!”

She waved her hands and burst into loud weeping, uttering nothing but:  “Not at home!  Not at home!”

She began to be hysterical.

“What’s the meaning of it?” muttered the old woman in horror.  “Why, he wrote the day before yesterday that he never leaves the flat!  Where is he sleeping?  Holy Saints!”

Nadyezhda Filippovna felt so faint that she could not take off her hat.  She looked about her blankly, as though she had been drugged, and convulsively clutched at her mother’s arms.

“What a person to trust:  a porter!” said the old lady, fussing round her daughter and crying.  “What a jealous girl you are!  He is not going to deceive you, and how dare he?  We are not just anybody.  Though we are of the merchant class, yet he has no right, for you are his lawful wife!  We can take proceedings!  I gave twenty thousand roubles with you!  You did not want for a dowry!”

And the old lady herself sobbed and gesticulated, and she felt faint, too, and lay down on her trunk.  Neither of them noticed that patches of blue had made their appearance in the sky, that the clouds were more transparent, that the first sunbeam was cautiously gliding over the wet grass in the garden, that with renewed gaiety the sparrows were hopping about the puddles which reflected the racing clouds.