"That's our village, sir."
Dim lights flickered in the distance like moving spots. There was a smell of smoke.
"Look sharp, little ones!" the driver cheerily called out to the horses, and slapped himself after the manner of drivers.
A few minutes later they passed at full gallop a row of cottages, buried in snow up to their roofs. Heads were outlined in shadow against the window-panes from which circles of light fell on to the road.
"People are having their supper," the peasant remarked unnecessarily, reminding the doctor that it was time for the supper which he had no hope of eating that day.
The sledge drew up in front of a cottage. When the driver had accompanied the doctor through the passage, he disappeared. The doctor groped for the latch, and entered the miserable little room, which was lighted by a flickering paraffin lamp.
A decrepit old hunchback woman, bent like the crook of an umbrella handle, started from her bed on seeing him, and straightened the handkerchief round her head. She blinked her red eyes in alarm.
"Where is the patient?" the doctor asked. "Have you a samovar?"
The old woman was so perturbed that she did not grasp the meaning of his words.
"Have you a samovar? Can you make me some tea?"