daughter is dying.  Come, for God’s sake!’ she says, ’and the horses have been sent for you.’...  Well, that’s all right.  But she was twenty miles from the town, and it was midnight out of doors, and the roads in such a state, my word!  And as she was poor herself, one could not expect more than two silver rubles, and even that problematic; and perhaps it might only be a matter of a roll of linen and a sack of oatmeal in payment.  However, duty, you know, before everything:  a fellow-creature may be dying.  I hand over my cards at once to Kalliopin, the member of the provincial commission, and return home.  I look; a wretched little trap was standing at the steps, with peasant’s horses, fat—­too fat—­and their coat as shaggy as felt; and the coachman sitting with his cap off out of respect.  Well, I think to myself, ’It’s clear, my friend, these patients aren’t rolling in riches.’...  You smile; but I tell you, a poor man like me has to take everything into consideration...  If the coachman sits like a prince, and doesn’t touch his cap, and even sneers at you behind his beard, and flicks his whip—­then you may bet on six rubles.  But this case, I saw, had a very different air.  However, I think there’s no help for it; duty before everything.  I snatch up the most necessary drugs, and set off.  Will you believe it?  I only just managed to get there at all.  The road was infernal:  streams, snow, watercourses, and the dyke had suddenly burst there—­that was the worst of it!  However, I arrived at last.  It was a little thatched house.  There was a light in the windows; that meant they expected me.  I was met by an old lady, very venerable, in a cap.  ‘Save her!’ she says; ‘she is dying.’  I say, ‘Pray don’t distress yourself—­Where is the invalid?’ ‘Come this way.’  I see a clean little room, a lamp in the corner; on the bed a girl of twenty, unconscious.  She was in a burning heat, and breathing heavily—­it was fever.  There were two other girls, her sisters, scared and in tears.  ‘Yesterday,’ they tell me, ’she was perfectly well and had a good appetite; this morning she complained of her head, and this evening, suddenly, you see, like this.’  I say again:  ’Pray don’t be uneasy.’  It’s a doctor’s duty, you know—­and I went up to her and bled her, told them to put on a mustard-plaster, and prescribed a mixture.  Meantime I looked at her; I looked at her, you know—­there, by God!  I had never seen such a face!—­she was a beauty, in a word!  I felt quite shaken with pity.  Such lovely features; such eyes!...  But, thank God! she became easier; she fell into a perspiration, seemed to come to her senses, looked round, smiled, and passed her hand over her face...  Her sisters bent over her.  They ask, ‘How are you?’ ‘All right,’ she says, and turns away.  I looked at her; she had fallen asleep.  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘now the patient should be left alone.’  So we all went out on tiptoe; only a maid remained, in case she was wanted.  In the parlour there was a samovar