little grave that he has chosen for himself in a dark corner of the cemetery. Well, what of that? Glory be to God! It is time for a rest. He has gone honestly all along his difficult road, and the earth is his mother . . . It is coming soon, very soon! . . .
But it is time to strike the bell. Mikheich cast another look at the stars, bared his head, made the sign of the cross, and began to gather the bell ropes. A moment later the night air was startled by the first resounding peal of the great bell. Then came another peal, and still another. One after another they were falling on the gently slumbering night, filling the air with majestic, prolonged, ringing, and singing tones.
The ringing ceased, and the service began in the church. Formerly, Mikheich would descend into the church and stand somewhere in the corner, praying and listening to the singing. But this year he remained in the tower. It is too hard for him to walk up and down the stairs. He sat down on a little bench, and, listening to the dying sounds of the brass, he fell into a profound revery. What was he dreaming about? He himself could not say. The belfry-tower was dimly lit by his little lantern. The humming bells were sunk in the darkness. At times, like a faint rumbling, the sounds of singing floated from the church, while the night wind gently swayed the ropes tied to the iron hearts of the bells.
The old man dropped his white head on his chest, and wandering thoughts began to crowd through his mind. He seems to see himself in the church. Dozens of beautiful, childish voices are singing in unison, while old Father Naum, dead long ago, pronounces the service. Hundreds of peasant heads, like ears of ripe wheat swayed by the wind, are bending down and rising again. The peasants make the sign of the cross. The faces are all familiar, although the men are all dead by this time. Here is the stern face of his father; here is his elder brother, sighing and making the sign of the cross by his father's side. And here is he, young, and healthy, and strong, and full of unconscious hopes of happiness and joy in life . . . Where is that happiness? His thought flares up like a dying flame, gliding along like a bright ray that illumines all the nooks and corners of his life . . . Unbearable toil, sorrows, and care . . . Where is that happiness? His hard lot will soon trace wrinkles on his youthful face, will bend his mighty back, will teach him how to sigh, as it has taught his elder brother . . .
Over to the left, among the women that stand there with
