elighted while he poured it forth.

"The heart of God throbs in each and every blade of grass; each and
every insect of the air and of the earth, breathes His holy spirit. God,
the Lord, Jesus Christ, lives everywhere! What beauty there is on earth,
in the fields and in the forests! Have you ever been on the Kerzhenz?
An incomparable silence reigns there supreme, the trees, the grass there
are like those of paradise."

Foma listened, and his imagination, captivated by the quiet, charming
narrative, pictured to him those wide fields and dense forests, full of
beauty and soul-pacifying silence.

"You look at the sky, as you rest somewhere under a little bush, and
the sky seems to descend upon you as though longing to embrace you. Your
soul is warm, filled with tranquil joy, you desire nothing, you envy
nothing. And it actually seems to you that there is no one on earth save
you and God."

The pilgrim spoke, and his voice and sing-song speech reminded Foma of
the wonderful fairy-tales of Aunt Anfisa. He felt as though, after a
long journey on a hot day, he drank the clear, cold water of a forest
brook, water that had the fragrance of the grasses and the flowers it
has bathed. Even wider and wider grew the pictures as they unfolded
upon him; here is a path through the thick, slumbering forest; the fine
sunbeams penetrate through the branches of the trees, and quiver in
the air and under the feet of the wanderer. There is a savoury odour of
fungi and decaying foliage; the honeyed fragrance of the flowers, the
intense odour of the pine-tree invisibly rise in the air and penetrate
the breast in a warm, rich stream. All is silence: only the birds are
singing, and the silence is so wonderful that it seems as though even
the birds were singing in your breast. You go, without haste, and your
life goes on like a dream. While here everything is enveloped in a gray,
dead fog, and we are foolishly struggling about in it, yearning for
freedom and light. There below they have started to sing something in
scarcely audible voices; it was half song, half prayer. Again someone is
shouting, scolding. And still they seek the way:

"Seven and a half. Seven!"

"And you have no care," spoke the pilgrim, and his voice murmured like
a brook. "Anybody will give you a crust of bread; and what else do
you need in your freedom? In the world, cares fall upon the soul like
fetters."

"You speak well," said Foma with a sigh.

"My dear brother!"