servants had explained to him by signs that his Mumu had snapped at her, and he determined to take his own measures.  First he fed Mumu with a bit of bread, fondled her, and put her to bed, then he fell to meditating, and spent the whole night long in meditating how he could best conceal her.  At last he decided to leave her all day in the garret, and only to come in now and then to see her, and to take her out at night.  The hole in the door he stopped up effectually with his old overcoat, and almost before it was light he was already in the yard, as though nothing had happened, even—­innocent guile!—­the same expression of melancholy on his face.  It did not even occur to the poor deaf man that Mumu would betray herself by her whining; in reality, everyone in the house was soon aware that the dumb man’s dog had come back, and was locked up in his garret, but from sympathy with him and with her, and partly, perhaps, from dread of him, they did not let him know that they had found out his secret.  The steward scratched his head, and gave a despairing wave of his head, as much as to say, “Well, well, God have mercy on him!  If only it doesn’t come to the mistress’s ears!”

But the dumb man had never shown such energy as on that day; he cleaned and scraped the whole courtyard, pulled up every single weed with his own hand, tugged up every stake in the fence of the flower-garden, to satisfy himself that they were strong enough, and unaided drove them in again; in fact, he toiled and labored so that even the old lady noticed his zeal.  Twice in the course of the day Gerasim went stealthily in to see his prisoner; when night came on, he lay down to sleep with her in the garret, not in the hay-loft, and only at two o’clock in the night he went out to take her a turn in the fresh air.

After walking about the courtyard a good while with her, he was just turning back, when suddenly a rustle was heard behind the fence on the side of the back street.  Mumu pricked up her ears, growled—­went up to the fence, sniffed, and gave vent to a loud shrill bark.  Some drunkard had thought fit to take refuge under the fence for the night.  At that very time the old lady had just fallen asleep after a prolonged fit of “nervous agitation”; these fits of agitation always overtook her after too hearty a supper.  The sudden bark waked her up:  her heart palpitated, and she felt faint.  “Girls, girls!” she moaned.  “Girls!” The terrified maids ran into her bedroom.  “Oh, oh, I am dying!” she said, flinging her arms about in her agitation.  “Again, that dog, again! . . .  Oh, send for the doctor.  They mean to be the death of me. . . .  The dog, the dog again!  Oh!” And she let her head fall back, which always signified a swoon.  They rushed for the doctor, that is, for the household physician, Hariton.  This doctor, whose whole qualification consisted in wearing soft-soled boots, knew how to feel the pulse delicately.  He used to sleep