and then send for the priest, and for
Mayakin."

"I'd rather send for them now."

"They'll soon toll for the mass--the priest isn't home--and then there's
no hurry, it may pass soon."

And he noisily started to sip the tea out of the saucer.

"I should live another year or two. You are young, and I am very much
afraid for you. Live honestly and firmly; do not covet what belongs to
other people, take good care of your own."

It was hard for him to speak, he stopped short and rubbed his chest with
his hand.

"Do not rely upon others; expect but little from them. We all live in
order to take, not to give. Oh Lord! Have mercy on the sinner!"

Somewhere in the distance the deep sound of the bell fell on the silence
of the morning. Ignat and Foma crossed themselves three times.

After the first sound of the bell-tone came another, then a third, and
soon the air was filled with sounds of the church-bells, coming from all
sides--flowing, measured, calling aloud.

"There, they are tolling for the mass," said Ignat, listening to the
echo of the bell-metal. "Can you tell the bells by their sounds?"

"No," answered Foma.

"Just listen. This one now--do you hear? the bass--this is from the
Nikola Church. It was presented by Peter Mitrich Vyagin--and this, the
hoarse one--this is at the church of Praskeva Pyatnitza."

The singing waves of the bell-tones agitated the air, which was filled
with them, and they died away in the clear blue of the sky. Foma
stared thoughtfully at his father's face and saw that the alarm was
disappearing from his eyes, and that they were now brighter.

But suddenly the old man's face turned very red, his eyes distended and
rolled out of their orbits, his mouth opened with fright, and from it
issued a strange, hissing sound:

"F-F-A-A-ch."

Immediately after this Ignat's head fell back on his shoulder, and his
heavy body slowly slipped down from the chair to the ground as if the
earth had dragged him imperiously unto itself. Foma was motionless and
silent for awhile, then he rushed up to Ignat, lifted his head from the
ground and looked into his face. The face was dark, motionless, and the
wide-open eyes expressed nothing--neither pain, nor fear, nor joy.
Foma looked around him. As before, nobody was in the garden, and the
resounding chatter of the bells was still roaring in the air. Foma's
hands began to tremble, he let go his father's head, and it struck
heavily against the ground. Dark,