another! Haha-ha!"

The deacon laughed gaily and loudly. Since the letter had been
written to Pyotr he had become serene and more cheerful. The
consciousness of having performed his duty as a father and his faith
in the power of the letter had brought back his mirthfulness and
good-humour.

"Pyotr means a stone," said he, as he went into his house. "My Pyotr
is not a stone, but a rag. A viper has fastened upon him and he
pampers her, and hasn't the pluck to kick her out. Tfoo! To think
there should be women like that, God forgive me! Eh? Has she no
shame? She has fastened upon the lad, sticking to him, and keeps
him tied to her apron strings. . . . Fie upon her!"

"Perhaps it's not she keeps hold of him, but he of her?"

"She is a shameless one anyway! Not that I am defending Pyotr. . . .
He'll catch it. He'll read the letter and scratch his head! He'll
burn with shame!"

"It's a splendid letter, only you know I wouldn't send it, Father
Deacon. Let him alone."

"What?" said the deacon, disconcerted.

"Why. . . . Don't send it, deacon! What's the sense of it? Suppose
you send it; he reads it, and . . . and what then? You'll only upset
him. Forgive him. Let him alone!"