'Don't think ill of me, Father. Perhaps you want something to eat?'

He took the bread and the money, and Praskovya Mikhaylovna was surprised
that he did not go, but stood looking at her.

'Pashenka, I have come to you! Take me in . . .'

His beautiful black eyes, shining with the tears that started in them,
were fixed on her with imploring insistence. And under his greyish
moustache his lips quivered piteously.

Praskovya Mikhaylovna pressed her hands to her withered breast, opened
her mouth, and stood petrified, staring at the pilgrim with dilated
eyes.

'It can't be! Stepa! Sergey! Father Sergius!'

'Yes, it is I,' said Sergius in a low voice. 'Only not Sergius, or
Father Sergius, but a great sinner, Stepan Kasatsky--a great and lost
sinner. Take me in and help me!'

'It's impossible! How have you so humbled yourself? But come in.'

She reached out her hand, but he did not take it and only followed her
in.

But where was she to take him? The lodging was a small one. Formerly
she had had a tiny room, almost a closet, for herself, but later she had
given it up to her daughter, and Masha was now sitting there rocking the
baby.