ained awake too for a
great part of the night, trying to soften her daughter's anger against
her husband.

She saw that it was impossible for her son-in-law, a weak creature, to
be other than he was, and realized that his wife's reproaches could do
no good--so she used all her efforts to soften those reproaches and to
avoid recrimination and anger. Unkindly relations between people caused
her actual physical suffering. It was so clear to her that bitter
feelings do not make anything better, but only make everything worse.
She did not in fact think about this: she simply suffered at the sight
of anger as she would from a bad smell, a harsh noise, or from blows on
her body.

She had--with a feeling of self-satisfaction--just taught Lukerya how
to mix the dough, when her six-year-old grandson Misha, wearing an
apron and with darned stockings on his crooked little legs, ran into the
kitchen with a frightened face.

'Grandma, a dreadful old man wants to see you.'

Lukerya looked out at the door.

'There is a pilgrim of some kind, a man...'

Praskovya Mikhaylovna rubbed her thin elbows against one another, wiped
her hands on her apron and went upstairs to get a five-kopek piece
[about a penny] out of her purse for him, but remembering that she had
nothing less than a ten-kopek piece she decided to give him some bread
instead. She returned to the cupboard, but suddenly blushed at the
thought of having grudged the ten-kopek piece, and telling Lukerya to
cut a slice of bread, went upstairs again to fetch it. 'It serves you
right,' she said to herself. 'You must now give twice over.'

She gave both the bread and the money to the pilgrim, and when doing
so--far from being proud of her generosity--she excused herself for
giving so little. The man had such an imposing appearance.

Though he had tramped two hundred versts as a beggar, though he was
tattered and had grown thin and weatherbeaten, though he had cropped his
long hair and was wearing a peasant's cap and boots, and though he bowed
very humbly, Sergius still had the impressive appearance that made him
so attractive. But Praskovya Mikhaylovna did not recognize him. She
could hardly do so, not having seen him for almost twenty years.

'Don't think ill of me, Father. Perhaps you want something to eat?'

He took the bread and the money, and Praskovya Mikhaylovna was surprised
that he did not go, but stood looking at her.

'Pashenka, I have come to you! Take me in..