The old lady's face was suddenly convulsed, and a hysterical sob shook her frame.
"God is compassionate," repeated the priest, when she had grown a little calmer. "I will tell you, in my parish there was a sick man, and much worse than Márya Dmítrievna, and he, though he was only a shopkeeper,[93] was cured in a very short time, by means of herbs. And this very same shopkeeper is now in Moscow. I have told Vasíli Dmítrievitch about him; it might be tried, you know. At all events, it would satisfy the invalid. With God, all things are possible."
"No, she won't get well," persisted the old lady. "Why should God have taken her, and not me?"
And again the hysterical sobbing overcame her so violently that she fainted away.
The invalid's husband hid his face in his hands, and rushed from the room.
In the corridor the first person whom he met was a six-year-old boy, who was chasing his little sister with all his might and main.
"Do you bid me take the children to their mamma?" inquired the nurse.
"No, she is not able to see them. They distract her."
The lad stopped for a moment, and after looking eagerly into his father's face, he cut a dido with his leg, and with merry shouts ran on. "I'm playing she's a horse, papásha," cried the little fellow, pointing to his sister.