The deacon looked in surprise at Anastasy's dark face, at his
unbuttoned cassock, which looked in the dusk like wings, and shrugged
his shoulders.

"How can I forgive him like that?" he asked. "Why I shall have to
answer for him to God!"

"Even so, forgive him all the same. Really! And God will forgive
you for your kindness to him."

"But he is my son, isn't he? Ought I not to teach him?"

"Teach him? Of course--why not? You can teach him, but why call
him a heathen? It will hurt his feelings, you know, deacon. . . ."

The deacon was a widower, and lived in a little house with three
windows. His elder sister, an old maid, looked after his house for
him, though she had three years before lost the use of her legs and
was confined to her bed; he was afraid of her, obeyed her, and did
nothing without her advice. Father Anastasy went in with him. Seeing
his table already laid with Easter cakes and red eggs, he began
weeping for some reason, probably thinking of his own home, and to
turn these tears into a jest, he at once laughed huskily.

"Yes, we shall soon be breaking the fast," he said. "Yes . . . it
wouldn't come amiss, deacon, to have a little glass now. Can we?
I'll drink it so that the old lady does not hear," he whispered,
glancing sideways towards the door.

Without a word the deacon moved a decanter and wineglass towards