in a grumpy,
ill-humoured voice: "Bother them! Not likely! What next!" And the
bishop again felt vexed and then hurt that with other people his
old mother behaved in a simple, ordinary way, while with him, her
son, she was shy, spoke little, and did not say what she meant, and
even, as he fancied, had during all those three days kept trying
in his presence to find an excuse for standing up, because she was
embarrassed at sitting before him. And his father? He, too, probably,
if he had been living, would not have been able to utter a word in
the bishop's presence. . . .

Something fell down on the floor in the adjoining room and was
broken; Katya must have dropped a cup or a saucer, for Father Sisoy
suddenly spat and said angrily:

"What a regular nuisance the child is! Lord forgive my transgressions!
One can't provide enough for her."

Then all was quiet, the only sounds came from outside. And when the
bishop opened his eyes he saw Katya in his room, standing motionless,
staring at him. Her red hair, as usual, stood up from under the
comb like a halo.

"Is that you, Katya?" he asked. "Who is it downstairs who keeps
opening and shutting a door?"

"I don't hear it," answered Katya; and she listened.

"There, someone has just passed by."

"But that was a noise in your stomach, uncle."

He laughed and stroked her on the head.

"So you say Cousin Nikolasha cuts up dead people?" he asked after
a pause.

"Yes, he is studying."

"And is he kind?"

"Oh, yes, he's kind. But he drinks vodka awfully."

"And what was it your father died of?"

"Papa was weak and very, very thin, and all at once his throat was
bad. I was ill then, too, and brother Fedya; we all had bad throats.
Papa died, uncle, and we got well."

Her chin began quivering, and tears gleamed in her eyes and trickled
down her cheeks.

"Your holiness," she said in a shrill voice, by now weeping bitterly,
"uncle, mother and all of us are left very wretched. . . . Give us
a little money . . . do be kind . . . uncle darling. . . ."

He, too, was moved to tears, and for a long time was too much touched
to speak. Then he stroked her on the head, patted her on the shoulder
and said:

"Very good, very good, my child. When the holy Easter comes, we
will talk it over. . . . I will help you. . . . I will help you. . . ."

His mother came in quietly, timidly, and prayed before the ikon.
Noticing that he was not sleeping, she said:

"Won't you have a dr