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The porter had long been ill; he mourned over the death of his wife and the loss of his grown-up children, and other misfortunes troubled him. The news of how the chaplain’s petition had been received and how their master had decided the future of his only child, condemning him for life to the lowest kind of work, inflicted on him the last wound. He became dangerously sick, and when after many months he arose, his body was partially paralyzed and his mind even more. This thoughtful man who, for sound reason and judgment, had been named “the prophet,” now dragged himself along, with a childish smile on his face, an object of ridicule and pity. Every one teased him, provoked him, and was glad to see him thrown into a passion. No one cared how the son suffered when mean jokes were played on his father, how his eyes filled with tears of shame and grief, how melancholy and quiet he became. No one noticed how it grieved him to see his father reduced to imbecility, and even if some had noticed it, they perhaps would have