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Is everyone all right?" he thought, stopping for a moment with a

sinking heart, and then immediately starting to run along the

hall and up the warped steps of the familiar staircase. The

well-known old door handle, which always angered the countess

when it was not properly cleaned, turned as loosely as ever. A

solitary tallow candle burned in the anteroom.

Old Michael was asleep on the chest. Prokofy, the footman, who

was so strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from

behind, sat plaiting slippers out of cloth selvedges. He looked

up at the opening door and his expression of sleepy indifference

suddenly changed to one of delighted amazement.

"Gracious heavens! The young count!" he cried, recognizing his

young master. "Can it be? My treasure!" and Prokofy, trembling

with excitement, rushed toward the drawing room door, probably in

order to announce him, but, changing his mind, came back and

stooped to kiss the young man's shoulder.