"Father Avraamy lives on three roubles a month!" thought Kunin.
"For a rouble the priest's wife could get herself a chemise, and
the doctor's wife could hire a washerwoman. But I'll help them,
anyway! I must help them."

Here Kunin suddenly recalled the private information he had sent
to the bishop, and he writhed as from a sudden draught of cold air.
This remembrance filled him with overwhelming shame before his inner
self and before the unseen truth.

So had begun and had ended a sincere effort to be of public service
on the part of a well-intentioned but unreflecting and over-comfortable
person.


THE MURDER

I

The evening service was being celebrated at Progonnaya Station.
Before the great ikon, painted in glaring colours on a background
of gold, stood the crowd of railway servants with their wives and
children, and also of the timbermen and sawyers who worked close
to the railway line. All stood in silence, fascinated by the glare
of the lights and the howling of the snow-storm which was aimlessly
disporting itself outside, regardless of the fact that it was the
Eve of the Annunciation. The old priest from Vedenyapino conducted
the service; the sacristan and Matvey Terehov were singing.