"Papa was weak and very, very thin, and all at once his throat was
bad. I was ill then, too, and brother Fedya; we all had bad throats.
Papa died, uncle, and we got well."

Her chin began quivering, and tears gleamed in her eyes and trickled
down her cheeks.

"Your holiness," she said in a shrill voice, by now weeping bitterly,
"uncle, mother and all of us are left very wretched. . . . Give us
a little money . . . do be kind . . . uncle darling. . . ."

He, too, was moved to tears, and for a long time was too much touched
to speak. Then he stroked her on the head, patted her on the shoulder
and said:

"Very good, very good, my child. When the holy Easter comes, we
will talk it over. . . . I will help you. . . . I will help you. . . ."

His mother came in quietly, timidly, and prayed before the ikon.
Noticing that he was not sleeping, she said:

"Won't you have a drop of soup?"

"No, thank you," he answered, "I am not hungry."

"You seem to be unwell, now I look at you. I should think so; you
may well be ill! The whole day on your legs, the whole day. . . .
And, my goodness, it makes one's heart ache even to look at you!
Well, Easter is not far off; you will rest then, please God. Then
we will have a talk, too, but now I'm not going to disturb you with