long, black hair spread over his shoulders and the bed.
The moon had changed its position, and the room grew darker, when Father Ignatius raised his head and murmured, putting into his voice the entire strength of his long-suppressed and unconscious love and hearkening to his own words, as if it were not he who was listening, but Vera.
"Vera, daughter mine! Do you understand what you are to me, daughter? Little daughter! My heart, my blood and my life. Your father—your old father—is already grey, and also feeble."
The shoulders of Father Ignatius shook and the entire burdened figure became agitated. Suppressing his agitation. Father Ignatius murmured tenderly, as to an infant:
"Your old father entreats you. No, little Vera, he supplicates. He weeps. He never has wept before. Your sorrow, little child, your sufferings—they are also mine. Greater than mine."
Father Ignatius shook his head.
"Greater, Verochka. What is death to an old man like me? But you—If you only knew how delicate and weak and timid you are! Do
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