"To be sure you will!"

After a brief silence his Reverence yawned and sighed at the same
moment and asked:

"Who is reading the 'Acts'?"

"Yevstrat. Yevstrat always reads them."

The deacon got up and, looking imploringly at his Reverence, asked:

"Father Fyodor, what am I to do now?"

"Do as you please; you are his father, not I. You ought to know
best."

"I don't know anything, Father Fyodor! Tell me what to do, for
goodness' sake! Would you believe it, I am sick at heart! I can't
sleep now, nor keep quiet, and the holiday will be no holiday to
me. Tell me what to do, Father Fyodor!"

"Write him a letter."

"What am I to write to him?"

"Write that he mustn't go on like that. Write shortly, but sternly
and circumstantially, without softening or smoothing away his guilt.
It is your parental duty; if you write, you will have done your
duty and will be at peace."

"That's true. But what am I to write to him, to what effect? If I
write to him, he will answer, 'Why? what for? Why is it a sin?'"

Father Anastasy laughed hoarsely again, and brandished his fingers.

"Why? what for? why is it a sin?" he began shrilly. "I was once
confessing a gentleman, and I told him that excessive confidence
in the Divine Mercy is a sin; and he asked, 'Why?' I tried to answer
him, but----" Anastasy slapped himself on the forehead. "I had
nothing here. He-he-he-he! . . ."

Anastasy's words, his hoarse jangling laugh at what was not laughable,
had an unpleasant effect on his Reverence and on the deacon. The
former was on the point of saying, "Don't interfere" again, but he
did not say it, he only frowned.

"I can't write to him," sighed the deacon.

"If you can't, who can?"

"Father Fyodor!" said the deacon, putting his head on one side and
pressing his hand to his heart. "I am an uneducated slow-witted
man, while the Lord has vouchsafed you judgment and wisdom. You
know everything and understand everything. You can master anything,
while I don't know how to put my words together sensibly. Be generous.
Instruct me how to write the letter. Teach me what to say and how
to say it. . . ."

"What is there to teach? There is nothing to teach. Sit down and
write."

"Oh, do me the favour, Father Fyodor! I beseech you! I know he will
be frightened and will attend to your letter, because, you see, you
are a cultivated man too. Do be so good! I'll sit down, and you'll
dictate to me. It will be a sin to write to-morrow, but no