lay in a graceful curve upon his chest, and rose and fell slowly under his deep breathing.
"Well, then, we will go!" said he.
Olga Stepanovna rose quickly, and asked in a timid, ingratiating voice:
"Only don't scold her, father! You know what she is."
Vera's room was in a belvedere at the top of the house, and the narrow wooden stairs bent and groaned under the heavy steps of Father Ignaty. Tall and ponderous, he was obliged to stoop so as not to hit his head against the ceiling above, and he frowned fastidiously when his wife's white jacket touched his face. He knew that nothing would come of their conversation with Vera.
"What, is that you?" asked Vera, lifting one bare arm to her eyes. The other arm lay on the top of the white summer counterpane, from which it was scarcely distinguishable, so white, transparent and cold was it.
"Verochka!" the mother began, but gave a sob and was silent.
"Vera!" said the father, endeavouring to soften his dry, hard voice. "Vera, tell us what is the matter with you?"
Vera was silent.
"Vera, are your mother and I undeserving of your confidence? Do we not love you? Have you any one nearer to you than ourselves? Speak to us of your grief, and believe me, an
