ty, remained mute or uttered abruptly,
like a soldier on duty, phrases such as:

"Certainly, Your Excellency. . . . Quite so. I understand."

"Has Your Excellency come for a long stay?" he inquired.

"I shall stay the night here, and to-morrow I'm going on to Klavdia
Nikolaevna's--it's a long time since I've seen her--and the day
after to-morrow I'll come back to you and stay three or four days.
I want to rest my soul here among you, holy Father. . . ."

The princess liked being at the monastery at N---. For the last two
years it had been a favourite resort of hers; she used to go there
almost every month in the summer and stay two or three days, even
sometimes a week. The shy novices, the stillness, the low ceilings,
the smell of cypress, the modest fare, the cheap curtains on the
windows--all this touched her, softened her, and disposed her to
contemplation and good thoughts. It was enough for her to be half
an hour in the hostel for her to feel that she, too, was timid and
modest, and that she, too, smelt of cypress-wood. The past retreated
into the background, lost its significance, and the princess began
to imagine that in spite of her twenty-nine years she was very much
like the old Father Superior, and that, like him, she was created
not for wealth, not for earthly grandeur and love, but for a peaceful
life secluded from the world, a life in twilight like the hostel.

It happens that a ray of light gleams in the dark cell of the
anchorite absorbed in prayer, or a bird alights on the window and
sings its song; the stern anchorite will smile in spite of himself,
and a gentle, sinless joy will pierce through the load of grief
over his sins, like water flowing from under a stone. The princess
fancied she brought from the outside world just such comfort as the
ray of light or the bird. Her gay, friendly smile, her gentle eyes,
her voice, her jests, her whole personality in fact, her little
graceful figure always dressed in simple black, must arouse in
simple, austere people a feeling of tenderness and joy. Every one,
looking at her, must think: "God has sent us an angel. . . ." And
feeling that no one could help thinking this, she smiled still more
cordially, and tried to look like a bird.

After drinking tea and resting, she went for a walk. The sun was
already setting. From the monastery garden came a moist fragrance
of freshly watered mignonette, and from the church floated the soft
singing of men's voices,