Makar died.
He did not notice how this came to pass. He knew that something should come out of him, and waited, thinking every moment it would come, but nothing appeared.
Nevertheless, he realised that he was now dead, and he therefore lay very still; he lay so long that he grew tired.
The night was dark when Makar felt someone push him with his foot. He turned his head and opened his eyes.
The larches were now standing meekly and quietly over him, as if ashamed of their former pranks. The shaggy spruces stretched out their long snow-covered arms and rocked themselves gently, gently, and the starry snowflakes settled softly through the air.
The kind, bright stars looked down through the branches from the dark blue sky, and seemed to be saying: "See, a poor man has died!"
Over Makar's prostrate form and prodding him with his foot stood the old priest Ivan. His long cassock was white with snow; snow lay upon his fur hat, his shoulders, and his beard. Most surprising of all was the fact that this was the same Father Ivan who had died five years ago.
He had been a good priest. He had never pressed Makar for his tithes and had not even asked to be paid for the services of the church; Makar had al-
