had an unpleasant effect on his Reverence and on the deacon. The
former was on the point of saying, "Don't interfere" again, but he
did not say it, he only frowned.

"I can't write to him," sighed the deacon.

"If you can't, who can?"

"Father Fyodor!" said the deacon, putting his head on one side and
pressing his hand to his heart. "I am an uneducated slow-witted
man, while the Lord has vouchsafed you judgment and wisdom. You
know everything and understand everything. You can master anything,
while I don't know how to put my words together sensibly. Be generous.
Instruct me how to write the letter. Teach me what to say and how
to say it. . . ."

"What is there to teach? There is nothing to teach. Sit down and
write."

"Oh, do me the favour, Father Fyodor! I beseech you! I know he will
be frightened and will attend to your letter, because, you see, you
are a cultivated man too. Do be so good! I'll sit down, and you'll
dictate to me. It will be a sin to write to-morrow, but now would
be the very time; my mind would be set at rest."

His Reverence looked at the deacon's imploring face, thought of the
disagreeable Pyotr, and consented to dictate. He made the deacon
sit down to his table and began.

"Well, write . . . 'Christ is risen, dear son . . .' exclamation