"Do as you please; you are his father, not I. You ought to know
best."

"I don't know anything, Father Fyodor! Tell me what to do, for
goodness' sake! Would you believe it, I am sick at heart! I can't
sleep now, nor keep quiet, and the holiday will be no holiday to
me. Tell me what to do, Father Fyodor!"

"Write him a letter."

"What am I to write to him?"

"Write that he mustn't go on like that. Write shortly, but sternly
and circumstantially, without softening or smoothing away his guilt.
It is your parental duty; if you write, you will have done your
duty and will be at peace."

"That's true. But what am I to write to him, to what effect? If I
write to him, he will answer, 'Why? what for? Why is it a sin?'"

Father Anastasy laughed hoarsely again, and brandished his fingers.

"Why? what for? why is it a sin?" he began shrilly. "I was once
confessing a gentleman, and I told him that excessive confidence
in the Divine Mercy is a sin; and he asked, 'Why?' I tried to answer
him, but----" Anastasy slapped himself on the forehead. "I had
nothing here. He-he-he-he! . . ."

Anastasy's words, his hoarse jangling laugh at what was not laughable,