nothing else to be done. But why is it you smell of spirits?'

'A relic of the past,' answered Misha, and he suddenly laughed, but
immediately pulled himself up, and, making a straight, low bow--a monk's
bow--he added: 'Won't you help me on my way? I'm going, see, on foot to
the monastery....'

'When?'

'To-day ... at once.'

'Why be in such a hurry?'

'Uncle, my motto always was, "Make haste, make haste!"'

'But what is your motto now?'

'It's the same now.... Only, make haste towards _good_!'

And so Misha went off, leaving me to ponder on the vicissitudes of
human destiny.

But he soon reminded me of his existence. Two months after his visit, I
got a letter from him, the first of those letters, of which later on he
furnished me with so abundant a supply. And note a peculiar fact: I
have seldom seen a neater, more legible handwriting than that
unbalanced fellow's. And the wording of his letters was exceedingly
correct, just a little flowery. Invariable entreaties for assistance,
always attended with resolutions to reform, vows, and promises on his
honour.... All of it seemed--and perhaps was--sincere. Misha's