tinguishable from the fabric, so white, translucent and cold was its aspect.
"Verochka!" began her mother, but sobbing, she grew silent.
"Vera!" said her father, making an effort to soften his dry and hard voice. "Vera, tell us, what troubles you?"
Vera was silent.
"Vera, do not we, your mother and I, deserve your confidence? Do we not love you? And is there some one nearer to you than we? Tell us about your sorrow, and believe me you'll feel better for it. And we too. Look at your aged mother, how much she suffers!"
"Verochka!"
"And I . . ." The dry voice trembled, truly something had broken in it. "And I . . . do you think I find it easy? As if I did not see that some sorrow is gnawing at you—and what is it? And I, your father, do not know what it is. Is it right that it should be so?"
Vera was silent. Father Ignatius very cautiously stroked his beard, as if afraid that his fingers would enmesh themselves involuntarily in it, and continued:
"Against my wish you went to St. Petersburg—did I pronounce a curse upon you, you
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