. . . What's your name? Shall I show you the way? Get up: postmen mustn't sleep!"
And Savély, thoroughly roused, ran up to the postman and tugged him by the sleeve.
"Hey, your honour, if you must go, go; and if you don't, it's not the thing. . . . Sleeping won't do."
The postman jumped up, sat down, looked with blank eyes round the hut, and lay down again.
"But when are you going?" Savély pattered away. "That's what the post is for — to get there in good time, do you hear? I'll take you."
The postman opened his eyes. Warmed and relaxed by his first sweet sleep, and not yet quite awake, he saw as through a mist the white neck and the immovable, alluring eyes of the sexton's wife. He closed his eyes and smiled as though he had been dreaming it all.
"Come, how can you go in such weather!" he heard a soft feminine voice; "you ought to have a sound sleep and it would do you good!"
"And what about the post?" said Savély anxiously. "Who's going to take the post? Are you going to take it, pray, you?"
The postman opened his eyes again, looked at the play of the dimples on Raïssa's face, remembered where he was, and understood Savély. The thought that he had to go out into the cold darkness sent a chill shudder all down him, and he winced.
"I might sleep another five minutes," he said, yawning. "I shall be late, anyway. . . ."
"We might be just in time," came a voice from
