She seemed to be purposing something, for she glanced again and again at the window, and then at the bed. The sick man had been lying quite still for a considerable time. She got very impatient, jumped up from her stool and stood still, eagerly listening and looking about; then she sat down again.
Night was falling fast. It was almost quite dark in the room. The little girl was dozing, curled up near the stove. The fire was flickering feebly with a reddish light which lighted up the woman's knees and a bit of the floor.
The dog started whining and scratched at the door. The chickens on the ladder cackled low and long.
Now a deep silence reigned in the room. A damp chill rose from the wet floor.
Antkowa suddenly got up to peer through the window at the village street; it was empty. The snow was falling thickly, blotting out everything at a few steps' distance. Undecided, she paused in front of the bed, but only for a moment; then she suddenly pulled away the feather-bed roughly and determinedly, and threw it on to the other bedstead. She took the dying man under the armpits and lifted him high up.
'Magda! Open the door.'
Magda jumped up, frightened, and opened the door.
'Come here…take hold of his feet.'
Magda clutched at her grandfather's feet with her small hands and looked up in expectation.
'Well, get on…help me to carry him! Don't stare about…carry him, that's what you've got to do!' she commanded again, severely.