high-flood covers the willow twigs on the shore,-a desire came upon
him to pray. He felt like kneeling, but he was ashamed of the soldier
and, folding his arms on his chest, he whispered softly:

"The joy of all the afflicted!" And he repeated tenderly, in anguish:
"Joy of all the afflicted, come to me, help Vaska Kashirin."

'' Long ago, while he was yet in his first term at the university and
used to go off on a spree sometimes, before he had made the
acquaintance of Werner and before he had entered the organization, he
used then to call himself half-boastingly, half-pityingly, "Vaska
Kashirin,"-and now for some reason or other he suddenly felt like
calling himself by the same name again. But the words had a dead and
toneless sound. "The joy of all the afflicted!"

Something stirred. It was as though some one's calm and mournful image
had flashed up in the distance and died out quietly, without
illuminating the deathly gloom. The wound-up clock in the steeple
struck. The soldier in the corridor made a noise with his gun or with
his saber and he yawned, slowly, at intervals.

"Joy of all the afflicted! You are silent! Will you not say anything
to Vaska Kashirin?"

He smiled patiently and waited. All was empty within his soul and
about him. And the calm, mournful image did not reappear. He recalled,
painfully and unnecessarily, wax candles burning; the priest in his
vestments ; the ikon painted on the wall. He recalled his father,
bending and stretching himself, praying and bowing to the ground,
while looking sidewise to see whether Vaska was praying, or whether he