and wrote a letter to the bishop. After asking for money and a
blessing for the school, he set forth genuinely, like a son, his
opinion of the priest at Sinkino.

"He is young," he wrote, "insufficiently educated, leads, I fancy,
an intemperate life, and altogether fails to satisfy the ideals
which the Russian people have in the course of centuries formed of
what a pastor should be."

After writing this letter Kunin heaved a deep sigh, and went to bed
with the consciousness that he had done a good deed.

On Monday morning, while he was still in bed, he was informed that
Father Yakov had arrived. He did not want to get up, and instructed
the servant to say he was not at home. On Tuesday he went away to
a sitting of the Board, and when he returned on Saturday he was
told by the servants that Father Yakov had called every day in his
absence.

"He liked my biscuits, it seems," he thought.

Towards evening on Sunday Father Yakov arrived. This time not only
his skirts, but even his hat, was bespattered with mud. Just as on
his first visit, he was hot and perspiring, and sat down on the
edge of his chair as he had done then. Kunin determined not to talk
about the school--not to cast pearls.

"I have brought you a list of books for the school, Pavel Mihailovitch,
. . ." Father Yakov began.

"Thank you."

But everything showed that Father Yakov had come for something else
besides the list. Has whole figure was expressive of extreme
embarrassment, and at the same time there was a look of determination
upon his face, as on the face of a man suddenly inspired by an idea.
He struggled to say something important, absolutely necessary, and
strove to overcome his timidity.

"Why is he dumb?" Kunin thought wrathfully. "He's settled himself
comfortably! I haven't time to be bothered with him."

To smoothe over the awkwardness of his silence and to conceal the
struggle going on within him, the priest began to smile constrainedly,
and this slow smile, wrung out on his red perspiring face, and out
of keeping with the fixed look in his grey-blue eyes, made Kunin
turn away. He felt moved to repulsion.

"Excuse me, Father, I have to go out," he said.

Father Yakov started like a man asleep who has been struck a blow,
and, still smiling, began in his confusion wrapping round him the
skirts of his cassock. In spite of his repulsion for the man, Kunin
felt suddenly sorry for him, and he wanted to soften his cruelty.

"Please co