When did she come?"

"Before the evening service. She asked first where you were and
then she went to the convent."

"Then it was her I saw in the church, just now! Oh, Lord!"

And the bishop laughed with joy.

"She bade me tell your holiness," the lay brother went on, "that
she would come to-morrow. She had a little girl with her--her
grandchild, I suppose. They are staying at Ovsyannikov's inn."

"What time is it now?"

"A little after eleven."

"Oh, how vexing!"

The bishop sat for a little while in the parlour, hesitating, and
as it were refusing to believe it was so late. His arms and legs
were stiff, his head ached. He was hot and uncomfortable. After
resting a little he went into his bedroom, and there, too, he sat
a little, still thinking of his mother; he could hear the lay brother
going away, and Father Sisoy coughing the other side of the wall.
The monastery clock struck a quarter.

The bishop changed his clothes and began reading the prayers before
sleep. He read attentively those old, long familiar prayers, and
at the same time thought about his mother. She had nine children
and about forty grandchildren. At one time, she had lived with her
husband, the deacon, in a poor village; she had lived there a very
long time from the age of seventeen to sixty. The bishop remembered
her from early childhood, almost from the age of three, and--how
he had loved her! Sweet, precious childhood, always fondly remembered!
Why did it, that long-past time that could never return, why did
it seem brighter, fuller, and more festive than it had really been?
When in his childhood or youth he had been ill, how tender and
sympathetic his mother had been! And now his prayers mingled with
the memories, which gleamed more and more brightly like a flame,
and the prayers did not hinder his thinking of his mother.

When he had finished his prayers he undressed and lay down, and at
once, as soon as it was dark, there rose before his mind his dead
father, his mother, his native village Lesopolye . . . the creak
of wheels, the bleat of sheep, the church bells on bright summer
mornings, the gypsies under the window--oh, how sweet to think
of it! He remembered the priest of Lesopolye, Father Simeon--mild,
gentle, kindly; he was a lean little man, while his son, a divinity
student, was a huge fellow and talked in a roaring bass voice. The
priest's son had flown into a rage with the cook and abused her:
"Ah, you Jehud's ass!" an