One day, Vasyuk played more than usual during the daytime, but in the evening, when Vladimir Mikhailovich came home, he did not turn up to meet him, and his Aunt said that the dog was ill. Vladimir Mikhailovich was alarmed, and went into the kitchen, where the dog lay on a bed of soft litter. His nose was dry and hot, and his eyes were troubled. He made a slight movement of his tail, and looked piteously at his friend.
"What is it, boy; ill? My poor fellow!"
The tail made a feeble motion, and the black eyes became moist.
"Lie still, then; lie still!"
"He will have to be taken to the veterinary: but to-morrow, I have no time. But it will pass off—" thought Vladimir Mikhailovich, and he forgot the dog in thinking of the happiness the pretty girl might give him. All the next day he was away from home. When he returned his hand fumbled long in searching for the bell-handle, and when it was found hesitated long as to what to do with the wooden thing.
"Ah, yes! I must ring," he laughed, and then began singing, "Open—ye!"
The bell gave a solitary ring, goloshes squish-squashed, and the key squeaked as it was taken out of the lock.
Vladimir Mikhailovich, still humming, passed through into his room, and walked about a long time before it occurred to him that he ought to
