emyon Yakovlevitch did
not even look at her. The kneeling landowner uttered a deep, sonorous
sigh, like the sound of a big pair of bellows.

"With sugar in it!" said Semyon Yakovlevitch suddenly, pointing to the
wealthy merchant. The latter moved forward and stood beside the kneeling
gentleman.

"Some more sugar for him!" ordered Semyon Yakovlevitch, after the glass
had already been poured out. They put some more in. "More, more, for
him!" More was put in a third time, and again a fourth. The merchant
began submissively drinking his syrup.

"Heavens!" whispered the people, crossing themselves. The kneeling
gentleman again heaved a deep, sonorous sigh.

"Father! Semyon Yakovlevitch!" The voice of the poor lady rang out all
at once plaintively, though so sharply that it was startling. Our party
had shoved her back to the wall. "A whole hour, dear father, I've been
waiting for grace. Speak to me. Consider my case in my helplessness."

"Ask her," said Semyon Yakovlevitch to the verger, who went to the
partition.

"Have you done what Semyon Yakovlevitch bade you last time?" he asked
the widow in a soft and measured voice.

"Done it! Father Semyon Yakovlevitch. How can one do it with them?"
wailed the widow. "They're cannibals; they're lodging a complaint
against me, in the court; they threaten to take it to the senate. That's
how they treat their own mother!"

"Give her!" Semyon Yakovlevitch pointed to a sugar-loaf. The boy skipped
up, seized the sugar-loaf and dragged it to the widow.

"Ach, father; great is your merciful kindness. What am I to do with so
much?" wailed the widow.

"More, more," said Semyon Yakovlevitch lavishly.

They dragged her another sugar-loaf. "More, more!" the saint commanded.
They took her a third, and finally a fourth. The widow was surrounded
with sugar on all sides. The monk from the monastery sighed; all this
might have gone to the monastery that day as it had done on former
occasions.

"What am I to do with so much," the widow sighed obsequiously. "It's
enough to make one person sick!... Is it some sort of a prophecy,
father?"

"Be sure it's by way of a prophecy," said some one in the crowd.

"Another pound for her, another!" Semyon Yakovlevitch persisted.

There was a whole sugar-loaf still on the table, but the saint ordered a
pound to be given, and they gave her a pound.

"Lord have mercy on us!" gasped the people, crossing themselves. "It's
surely a prophecy."

"Sweet