love, and listening to his words, as though not he, but Vera, were listening to them, exclaimed:
"Vera, my daughter! Do you understand what it means, daughter! Little daughter! My heart! my blood, my life! Your father, your poor old father, already grey and feeble."
His shoulders shook, and all his heavy frame was convulsed. With a shudder Father Ignaty whispered tenderly, as to a little child:
"Your poor old father asks you. Yes, Verochka, he entreats. He weeps. He who never was so wont. Your grief, my little daughter, your suffering, are my own. More than mine."
Father Ignaty shook his head.
"More, Verochka. What is death to me, an old man? But you——. If only you had realized, how tender, weak and timid you were! Do you remember how when you pricked your finger and the blood came, you began to cry. My little daughter! And you do indeed love me, love me dearly, I know. Every morning you kiss my hand. Speak, speak of what is grieving you—and I with these two hands will strangle your grief. They are still strong, Vera, these hands."
His locks shook.
"Speak!"
He fixed his eyes on the wall, and stretching out his hands, cried:
"Speak!"
But the chamber was silent, and from the far
