But she was terrified when she saw Marfinka’s face.
“Sit down in the armchair,” she said, but Marfinka clung to her.
“Lie down, Grandmother, and I will sit on the bed beside you. I will tell you everything, but please put out the light.”
Then Marfinka began to relate how she had gone with Vikentev into the park to hear the nightingales sing, how she had first objected because it was so dark.
“Are you afraid?” Vikentev had asked.
“Not with you,” and they had gone on hand in hand.
“How dark it is! I won’t go any farther. Don’t take hold of my hand!” She went on involuntarily, although Vikentev had loosed her hand, her heart beating faster and faster. “I am afraid, I won’t go a step farther.” She drew closer to him all the same, terrified by the crackling of the twigs under her feet.
“Here we will wait. Listen!” he whispered.
The nightingale sang, and Marfinka felt herself enveloped in the warm breath of night. At intervals her hand sought Vikentev’s, but when he touched hers she drew it back.
“How lovely, Marfa Vassilievna! What an enchanted night!”