Kunin shut his eyes and began mentally composing a sermon. A little
later he sat down to the table and rapidly began writing.

"I'll give it to that red-haired fellow, let him read it in church,
. . ." he thought.

The following Sunday Kunin drove over to Sinkino in the morning to
settle the question of the school, and while he was there to make
acquaintance with the church of which he was a parishioner. In spite
of the awful state of the roads, it was a glorious morning. The sun
was shining brightly and cleaving with its rays the layers of white
snow still lingering here and there. The snow as it took leave of
the earth glittered with such diamonds that it hurt the eyes to
look, while the young winter corn was hastily thrusting up its green
beside it. The rooks floated with dignity over the fields. A rook
would fly, drop to earth, and give several hops before standing
firmly on its feet. . . .

The wooden church up to which Kunin drove was old and grey; the
columns of the porch had once been painted white, but the colour
had now completely peeled off, and they looked like two ungainly
shafts. The ikon over the door looked like a dark smudged blur. But
its poverty touched and softened Kunin. Modestly dropping his eyes,
he went into the church and stood by the door. The service had only
just begun. An old sacristan, bent into a bow, was reading the
"Hours" in a hollow indistinct tenor. Father Yakov, who conducted
the service without a deacon, was walking about the church, burning
incense. Had it not been for the softened mood in which Kunin found
himself on entering the poverty-stricken church, he certainly would
have smiled at the sight of Father Yakov. The short priest was