Along the wet streets of the city swift streamlets ran purling between bits of ice; bright were the colors of people's dresses and the tones of their voices, as they hurried along. In the walled gardens, the buds on the trees were bourgeoning, and the fresh breeze swayed their branches with a soft gentle murmur. Everywhere transparent drops were forming and falling.... The sparrows chattered incoherently, and fluttered about on their little wings. On the sunny side, on the walls, houses, and trees, all was full of life and brilliancy. The sky, and the earth, and the heart of man overflowed with youth and joy. In front of a great seignorial mansion, in one of the principal streets, fresh straw was laid; in the house lay that same invalid whom we saw hastening abroad. Near the closed doors of the house stood the sick lady's husband, and a lady well along in years. On a sofa sat the confessor, with cast-down eyes, holding something wrapped up under his stole.[91] In one corner, in a Voltaire easy-chair, reclined an old lady, the sick woman's mother, weeping violently. [Footnote 91: Called _epitrachilion_ in the Greek Church.] Near her the maid stood holding a clean handkerchief, ready for the old lady's use when she should ask for it. Another maid was rubbing the old lady's temples, and blowing on her gray head underneath her cap. "Well, Christ be with you, my dear," said the husband to the elderly lady who was standing with him near the door: "she has such confidence in you; you know how to talk with her; go and speak with her a little while, my darling, please go!" He was about to open the door for her; but his cousin held him back, putting her handkerchief several times to her eyes, and shaking her head. "There, now she will not see that I have been weeping," said she, and, opening the door herself, went to the invalid. The husband was in the greatest excitement, and seemed quite beside himself. He started to go over to the old mother, but after taking a few steps he turned around, walked the length of the room, and approached the priest. The priest looked at him, raised his brows toward heaven, and sighed. The thick gray beard also was lifted and fell again. "My God! my God!" said the husband. "What can you do?" exclaimed the confessor, sighing and again lifting up his brows and beard, and letting them drop. "And the old mother there!" exclaimed the husband, almost in despair. "She will not be able to endure it. You see, she loved her so, she loved her so, that she.... I don't know. You might try, holy father,[92] to calm her a little, and persuade her to go away." [Footnote 92: _bátiushka._] The confessor arose and went over to the old lady. "It is true, no one can appreciate a mother's heart," said he, "but God is compassionate." The old lady's face was suddenly convulsed, and a hysterical sob shook her frame.