that Kitty had strengthened his hope by accounts of the marvelous recoveries she had heard of.  Levin knew all this; and it was agonizingly painful to him to behold the supplicating, hopeful eyes and the emaciated wrist, lifted with difficulty, making the sign of the cross on the tense brow, and the prominent shoulders and hollow, gasping chest, which one could not feel consistent with the life the sick man was praying for.  During the sacrament Levin did what he, an unbeliever, had done a thousand times.  He said, addressing God, “If Thou dost exist, make this man to recover” (of course this same thing has been repeated many times), “and Thou wilt save him and me.”

After extreme unction the sick man became suddenly much better.  He did not cough once in the course of an hour, smiled, kissed Kitty’s hand, thanking her with tears, and said he was comfortable, free from pain, and that he felt strong and had an appetite.  He even raised himself when his soup was brought, and asked for a cutlet as well.  Hopelessly ill as he was, obvious as it was at the first glance that he could not recover, Levin and Kitty were for that hour both in the same state of excitement, happy, though fearful of being mistaken.

“Is he better?”

“Yes, much.”

“It’s wonderful.”

“There’s nothing wonderful in it.”

“Anyway, he’s better,” they said in a whisper, smiling to one another.

This self-deception was not of long duration.  The sick man fell into a quiet sleep, but he was waked up half an hour later by his cough.  And all at once every hope vanished in those about him and in himself.  The reality of his suffering crushed all hopes in Levin and Kitty and in the sick man himself, leaving no doubt, no memory even of past hopes.

Without referring to what he had believed in half an hour before, as though ashamed even to recall it, he asked for iodine to inhale in a bottle covered with perforated paper.  Levin gave him the bottle, and the same look of passionate hope with which he had taken the sacrament was now fastened on his brother, demanding from him the confirmation of the doctor’s words that inhaling iodine worked wonders.

“Is Katya not here?” he gasped, looking round while Levin reluctantly assented to the doctor’s words.  “No; so I can say it....  It was for her sake I went through that farce.  She’s so sweet; but you and I can’t deceive ourselves.  This is what I believe in,” he said, and, squeezing the bottle in his bony hand, he began breathing over it.

At eight o’clock in the evening Levin and his wife were drinking tea in their room when Marya Nikolaevna ran in to them breathlessly.  She was pale, and her lips were quivering.  “He is dying!” she whispered.  “I’m afraid will die this minute.”

Both of them ran to him.  He was sitting raised up with one elbow on the bed, his long back bent, and his head hanging low.