his bent figure and he felt sorry for the old man.

"Please God, we will have a drink to-morrow," he said, wishing to
soften his stem refusal. "Everything is good in due season."

His Reverence believed in people's reforming, but now when a feeling
of pity had been kindled in him it seemed to him that this disgraced,
worn-out old man, entangled in a network of sins and weaknesses,
was hopelessly wrecked, that there was no power on earth that could
straighten out his spine, give brightness to his eyes and restrain
the unpleasant timid laugh which he laughed on purpose to smoothe
over to some slight extent the repulsive impression he made on
people.

The old man seemed now to Father Fyodor not guilty and not vicious,
but humiliated, insulted, unfortunate; his Reverence thought of his
wife, his nine children, the dirty beggarly shelter at Zyavkin's;
he thought for some reason of the people who are glad to see priests
drunk and persons in authority detected in crimes; and thought that
the very best thing Father Anastasy could do now would be to die
as soon as possible and to depart from this world for ever.

There were a sound of footsteps.

"Father Fyodor, you are not resting?" a bass voice asked from the
passage.

"No, deacon; come in."

Orlov's colleague, the deacon Liubimov, an elderly man with a big