in bed in her chemise; her bare legs hang down and she moans.
"Oh, my God . . . oh, my God!" she murmurs, half shutting her eyes from our candles." I can't, I can't."
"Liza, my child," I say, "what's the matter?"
Seeing me, she calls out and falls on my neck.
"Papa darling," she sobs. "Papa dearest . . . my sweet. I don't know what it is . . . It hurts."
She embraces me, kisses me and lisps endearments which I heard her lisp when she was still a baby.
"Be calm, my child. God's with you," I say. "You mustn't cry. Something hurts me too."
I try to cover her with the bedclothes; my wife gives her to drink; and both of us jostle in confusion round the bed. My shoulders push into hers, and at that moment I remember how we used to bathe our children.
"But help her, help her!" my wife implores. "Do something!" And what can I do? Nothing. There is some weight on the girl's soul; but I understand nothing, know nothing and can only murmur:
"It's nothing, nothing . . . It will pass . . . Sleep, sleep."
As if on purpose a dog suddenly howls in the yard, at first low and irresolute, then aloud, in two voices. I never put any value on such signs as dogs' whining or screeching owls; but now
