Father Christopher woke up with the same smile with which he had
fallen asleep; his face looked creased and wrinkled from sleep, and
seemed only half the size. After washing and dressing, he proceeded
without haste to take out of his pocket a little greasy psalter;
and standing with his face towards the east, began in a whisper
repeating the psalms of the day and crossing himself.

"Father Christopher," said Kuzmitchov reproachfully, "it's time to
start; the horses are ready, and here are you, . . . upon my word."

"In a minute, in a minute," muttered Father Christopher. "I must
read the psalms. . . . I haven't read them to-day."

"The psalms can wait."

"Ivan Ivanitch, that is my rule every day. . . . I can't . . ."

"God will overlook it."

For a full quarter of an hour Father Christopher stood facing the
east and moving his lips, while Kuzmitchov looked at him almost
with hatred and impatiently shrugged his shoulders. He was particularly
irritated when, after every "Hallelujah," Father Christopher drew
a long breath, rapidly crossed himself and repeated three times,
intentionally raising his voice so that the others might cross
themselves, "Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! Glory be to Thee,
O Lord!" At last he smiled, looked upwards at the sky, and, putting
the psalter in his pocket, said:

"Finis!"