Father Ignatius became silent, and an image arose before him of something huge, of granite, and terrible, full of invisible dangers and strange and indifferent people. And there, alone and weak, was his Vera and there they had lost her. An awful hatred against that terrible and mysterious city grew in the soul of Father Ignatius, and an anger against his daughter who was silent, obstinately silent.

“St. Petersburg has nothing to do with it,” said Vera, morosely, and closed her eyes. “And nothing is the matter with me. Better go to bed, it is late.”

“Verochka,” whimpered her mother. “Little daughter, do confess to me.”

“Akh, mamma!” impatiently Vera interrupted her.

Father Ignatius sat down on a chair and laughed.

“Well, then it’s nothing?” he inquired, ironically.

“Father,” sharply put in Vera, raising herself from the pillow, “you know that I love you and mother. Well, I do feel a little weary. But that will pass. Do go to sleep, and I also wish to sleep. And to-morrow, or some other time, we’ll have a chat.”

Father Ignatius impetuously arose so that the chair hit the wall, and took his wife’s hand.

“Let us go.”

“Verochka!”

“Let us go, I tell you!” shouted Father Ignatius. “If she has forgotten God, shall we…”

Almost forcibly he had led Olga Stepanovna out of the room, and when they descended the stairs, his wife, decreasing her gait, said in a harsh whisper:

“It was you, priest, who have made her such. From you she learned her ways. And you’ll answer for it. Akh, unhappy creature that I am!”

And she wept, and, as her eyes filled with tears, her foot, missing a step, would descend with a sudden, jolt, as if she were eager to fall into some existent abyss below.

From that day Father Ignatius ceased to speak with his daughter, but she seemed not to notice it. As before she lay in her room, or walked about, continually wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands as if they contained some irritating foreign substance. And crushed between these two silent people, the jolly, fun-loving wife of the priest quailed and seemed lost, not knowing what to say or do.

Occasionally Vera took a stroll. A week following the interview she went out in the evening, as was her habit. She was not seen alive again, as on this evening she threw herself under the train, which cut her in two.

Father Ignatius himself directed the funeral. His wife was not present in church, as at the news of Vera’s death she was prostrated by a stroke. She lost control of her feet, hands and tongue, and she lay motionless in the semi-darkened room when the church bells rang out. She heard the people, as they issued out of church and passed the house, intone the chants, and she made an effort to raise her hand, and to make a sign of the cross, but her hand refused to obey; she wished to say: “Farewell, Vera!” but the tongue lay in her mouth huge and heavy. And her attitude was so calm, that it gave one an impression of restfulness or sleep. Only her eyes remained open.

At the funeral, in church, were many people who knew Father Ignatius, and many strangers, and all bewailed Vera’s terrible death, and tried to find in the movements and voice of Father Ignatius tokens of