le sky
was sparkling with bright luminous stars. There was a scent of
spring and holiday in the soft still air.

"How long was he dictating?" the deacon said admiringly. "Ten
minutes, not more! It would have taken someone else a month to
compose such a letter. Eh! What a mind! Such a mind that I don't
know what to call it! It's a marvel! It's really a marvel!"

"Education!" sighed Anastasy as he crossed the muddy street; holding
up his cassock to his waist. "It's not for us to compare ourselves
with him. We come of the sacristan class, while he has had a learned
education. Yes, he's a real man, there is no denying that."

"And you listen how he'll read the Gospel in Latin at mass to-day!
He knows Latin and he knows Greek. . . . Ah Petrushka, Petrushka!"
the deacon said, suddenly remembering. "Now that will make him
scratch his head! That will shut his mouth, that will bring it home
to him! Now he won't ask 'Why.' It is a case of one wit to outwit
another! Haha-ha!"

The deacon laughed gaily and loudly. Since the letter had been
written to Pyotr he had become serene and more cheerful. The
consciousness of having performed his duty as a father and his faith
in the power of the letter had brought back his mirthfulness and
good-humour.

"Pyotr means a stone," said he, as he went into his house. "My Pyotr
is not a stone, but a rag. A viper has fastened upon him and he
pampers her, and hasn't the pluck to kick her out. Tfoo! To think
there should be women like that, God forgive me! Eh? Has she no
shame? She has fastened upon the lad, sticking to him, and keeps
him tied to her apron strings. . . . Fie upon her!"

"Perhaps it's not she keeps hold of him, but he of her?"

"She is a shameless one anyway! Not that I am defending Pyotr. . . .
He'll catch it. He'll read the letter and scratch his head! He'll
burn with shame!"

"It's a splendid letter, only you know I wouldn't send it, Father
Deacon. Let him alone."

"What?" said the deacon, disconcerted.

"Why. . . . Don't send it, deacon! What's the sense of it? Suppose
you send it; he reads it, and . . . and what then? You'll only upset
him. Forgive him. Let him alone!"

The deacon looked in surprise at Anastasy's dark face, at his
unbuttoned cassock, which looked in the dusk like wings, and shrugged
his shoulders.

"How can I forgive him like that?" he asked. "Why I shall have to
answer for him to God!"

"Even so, forgive him all the same. Really! And God will