a child very near and very dear to her.

"Pavlusha, darling," she said; "my own, my darling son! . . . Why
are you like this? Pavlusha, answer me!"

Katya, pale and severe, stood beside her, unable to understand what
was the matter with her uncle, why there was such a look of suffering
on her grandmother's face, why she was saying such sad and touching
things. By now he could not utter a word, he could understand
nothing, and he imagined he was a simple ordinary man, that he was
walking quickly, cheerfully through the fields, tapping with his
stick, while above him was the open sky bathed in sunshine, and
that he was free now as a bird and could go where he liked!

"Pavlusha, my darling son, answer me," the old woman was saying.
"What is it? My own!"

"Don't disturb his holiness," Sisoy said angrily, walking about the
room. "Let him sleep . . . what's the use . . . it's no good. . . ."

Three doctors arrived, consulted together, and went away again. The
day was long, incredibly long, then the night came on and passed
slowly, slowly, and towards morning on Saturday the lay brother
went in to the old mother who was lying on the sofa in the parlour,
and asked her to go into the bedroom: the bishop had just breathed
his last.

Next day was Easter Sunday. There were forty-two churches and six
monasteries in the town; the sonorous, joyful clang of the bells
hung over the town from morning till night unceasingly, setting the