tive brain can work at its best, and when poetic thought seethes most ardently, and when the heart flames with the greatest heat of passion or with the greatest poignancy of grief—the hour when the cruel soul ripens to a maximum of strength and composure as it meditates evil—the hour when, at Oblomovka, every one settled down to a night of profound, calm restfulness.
"Let us go for a walk," said little Ilya to his mother.
"God bless the child!" ,she cried. "How could we go for a walk? It is now damp, and you would get your little feet wet. Besides, we should find it dreadful out of doors, for at this hour the wood goblin is abroad, and he carries off little boys."
"To what place does he carry them, and what is he like, and where does he live?" asked the child; whereupon the mother gave full rein to her unbridled fancy. As she did so the child listened with blinking eyes; until at length, on sleep completely overcoming him, the nurse approached, took him from his mother's lap, and bore him to bed, with his head hanging over her shoulder.
"Another day is over, praise be to God!" said the inmates of Oblomovka as, yawning, they made the sign of the cross and then
