Sisoy went back to his room and a little later made his appearance
in his boots, with a candle; he had on his cassock over his
underclothes and on his head was an old faded skull-cap.

"I can't sleep," said the bishop, sitting up. "I must be unwell.
And what it is I don't know. Fever!"

"You must have caught cold, your holiness. You must be rubbed with
tallow." Sisoy stood a little and yawned. "O Lord, forgive me, a
sinner."

"They had the electric lights on at Erakin's today," he said; "I
don't like it!"

Father Sisoy was old, lean, bent, always dissatisfied with something,
and his eyes were angry-looking and prominent as a crab's.

"I don't like it," he said, going away. "I don't like it. Bother
it!"

II

Next day, Palm Sunday, the bishop took the service in the cathedral
in the town, then he visited the bishop of the diocese, then visited
a very sick old lady, the widow of a general, and at last drove
home. Between one and two o'clock he had welcome visitors dining
with him--his mother and his niece Katya, a child of eight years
old. All dinner-time the spring sunshine was streaming in at the
windows, throwing bright light on the white tablecloth and on Katya's
red hair. Through the double windows they could hear the noise of