hen he is a sad sight to look at . . . yes!"

Anastasy leaned his head on his fist and sank into thought.

"It's a terrible thing, deacon," he sighed, evidently struggling
with the desire to take another glass--"a terrible thing! In sin
my mother bore me, in sin I have lived, in sin I shall die. . . .
God forgive me, a sinner! I have gone astray, deacon! There is no
salvation for me! And it's not as though I had gone astray in my
life, but in old age--at death's door . . . I . . ."

The old man, with a hopeless gesture, drank off another glass, then
got up and moved to another seat. The deacon, still keeping the
letter in his hand, was walking up and down the room. He was thinking
of his son. Displeasure, distress and anxiety no longer troubled
him; all that had gone into the letter. Now he was simply picturing
Pyotr; he imagined his face, he thought of the past years when his
son used to come to stay with him for the holidays. His thoughts
were only of what was good, warm, touching, of which one might think
for a whole lifetime without wearying. Longing for his son, he read
the letter through once more and looked questioningly at Anastasy.

"Don't send it," said the latter, with a wave of his hand.

"No, I must send it anyway; I must . . . bring him to his senses a
little, all the same. It's just as well. . . ."

The deacon took an envelope from the table, but before putting the
letter into it he sat down to the table, smiled and added on his
own account at the bottom of the letter:

"They have sent us a new inspector. He's much friskier than the old
one. He's a great one for dancing and talking, and there's nothing
he can't do, so that all the Govorovsky girls are crazy over him.
Our military chief, Kostyrev, will soon get the sack too, they say.
High time he did!" And very well pleased, without the faintest idea
that with this postscript he had completely spoiled the stern letter,
the deacon addressed the envelope and laid it in the most conspicuous
place on the table.

EASTER EVE

I was standing on the bank of the River Goltva, waiting for the
ferry-boat from the other side. At ordinary times the Goltva is a
humble stream of moderate size, silent and pensive, gently glimmering
from behind thick reeds; but now a regular lake lay stretched out
before me. The waters of spring, running riot, had overflowed both
banks and flooded both sides of the river for a long distance,
submerging vegetable gardens, hayf