finally settle in an awkward position, craning his neck, and staring expectantly at the old woman’s small dry hands as they methodically turned the leaves of the book.

“Look at the shaggy dog! He has it easy. Why don’t we go down there too? Why not? He’ll be having a soft thing of it, while we slave for him. Shall we go?”

Two or three minutes later Syomka and I too were sitting on the ground, flanking our comrade. The old woman didn’t say a word to us, she only gave us a scrutinizing glance and continued turning the leaves of the book, looking for something in it. We sat amidst luxuriant, green, fragrant foliage and overhead there was a gentle, soft, cloudless sky. Now and then a breeze stirred and the leaves made that mysterious rustling sound which always soothes the soul, rouses in it a gentle, peaceful mood, moves one to thoughts of something vague yet deeply human, purging the spirit of all that is unclean or at least erasing the memory of it temporarily, and allowing one to breathe with a sense of ease and renewal.

“ ‘Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ,’ ” the old woman’s voice was heard. It was halting and cracked with age yet full of piety and stern dignity. At the first sound of it Mishka crossed himself earnestly, while Syomka shifted about on the ground trying to find a more comfortable position. The old woman glanced at him without ceasing to read. “ ‘For I long to see you, that I may impart unto you some spiritual gift, to the end ye may be established; that is, that I may be comforted together with you by the mutual faith both of you and me.’ ”

Syomka, like the true heathen he was, yawned noisily, and his comrade shot a reproachful glance at him out of his blue eyes, and hung his shaggy, dusty head. The old woman, without ceasing to read, also looked severely at Syomka, and this embarrassed him. He twitched his nose, glanced aside, and apparently trying to efface the impression made by his yawn, drew a deep and pious sigh.

Several minutes passed quietly. The clear, monotonous reading acted soothingly.

“ ‘For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and…’

“What do you want?” the reader cried abruptly to Syomka.

“But…nothing! Have the goodness to go on reading. I am listening,” he explained meekly.

“Why do you touch the clasps with your dirty paw?” the old woman asked angrily.

“I’m curious…because it’s such fine work. I understand this sort of thing. I know locksmiths’ work.…So I touched them.”

“See here,” the old woman commanded dryly. “Tell, me, what was I reading about?”

“Why, of course, I know.”

“Well, then, tell me.”

“It’s a sermon.…It teaches about faith, and also about ungodliness.…It’s very simple, and it’s all true! It goes straight to the soul.”

The old woman shook her head sadly and looked at us reproachfully:

“You’re lost souls—blockheads. Go back to your work.”

“She seems to be…angry,” declared Mishka, smiling guiltily.

Syomka scratched himself, yawned, and said thoughtfully, as he watched the old woman walk down the narrow garden path, without turning around: