Three times during the last three days I have fancied that I have seen Marie Ivanovna, once in broad daylight in the Forest, once sitting on the sofa in our room, once at night near my bed.

Of course this is the merest illusion, but I have hours now when I am not quite sure of things.

Andrey Vassilievitch told me something of the same to-day--that he thought that he saw his wife and that Nikitin told him the same yesterday.

The flies also are confusing and there's a hot dry smell that's disagreeable and prevents one from eating.

I know that I must keep a clear head on these things.