thy or interest, it could be seen that his thought on
awaking was of the wool and of Varlamov.

"Father Christopher, get up; it is time to start," he said anxiously.
"Wake up; we've slept too long as it is! Deniska, put the horses
in."

Father Christopher woke up with the same smile with which he had
fallen asleep; his face looked creased and wrinkled from sleep, and
seemed only half the size. After washing and dressing, he proceeded
without haste to take out of his pocket a little greasy psalter;
and standing with his face towards the east, began in a whisper
repeating the psalms of the day and crossing himself.

"Father Christopher," said Kuzmitchov reproachfully, "it's time to
start; the horses are ready, and here are you, . . . upon my word."

"In a minute, in a minute," muttered Father Christopher. "I must
read the psalms. . . . I haven't read them to-day."

"The psalms can wait."

"Ivan Ivanitch, that is my rule every day. . . . I can't . . ."

"God will overlook it."

For a full quarter of an hour Father Christopher stood facing the
east and moving his lips, while Kuzmitchov looked at him almost
with hatred and impatiently shrugged his shoulders. He was particularly
irritated when, after every "Hallelujah," Father Christopher drew
a long breath, rapidly crossed himself and repeated three times,
intentionally raising his voice so that the others might cross
themselves, "Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! Glory be to Thee,
O Lord!" At last he smiled, looked upwards at the sky, and, putting
the psalter in his pocket, said:

"Finis!"

A minute later the chaise had started on the road. As though it
were going backwards and not forwards, the travellers saw the same
scene as they had before midday.

The low hills were still plunged in the lilac distance, and no end
could be seen to them. There were glimpses of high grass and heaps
of stones; strips of stubble land passed by them and still the same
rooks, the same hawk, moving its wings with slow dignity, moved
over the steppe. The air was more sultry than ever; from the sultry
heat and the stillness submissive nature was spellbound into silence
. . . . No wind, no fresh cheering sound, no cloud.

But at last, when the sun was beginning to sink into the west, the
steppe, the hills and the air could bear the oppression no longer,
and, driven out of all patience, exhausted, tried to fling off the
yoke. A fleecy ashen-grey cloud unexpectedly appeared behind