"My children," he said, "I see you seldom, but none the less I feel as if you belonged to me. You are in my parish, and the Church has appointed me to be your Batoushka. I would give all I have—yes, and lay down my life—to bring you, and all your people, back to the Church you have forsaken. Yes, Michael, I know that cannot be at present. The Church must be purified and reformed, but we too are Christians. I would have no man dare to sign himself with the sign of the cross, without truly recollecting the cross of Christ. No man should put an icon into his house, except as a reminder of the constant presence of God, before whose sight, he could not commit a wrong deed, and in whose hearing he could not utter an evil word. The symbols must only represent truths, or they are worse than useless. There will come a time—but the end is very far-off." Father Cyril paused, with a break in his voice like the sob of a wearied runner. Velia pressed closer to him, and leaned her head against him as if he had been her father. The hearts of the children were touched, and they drew still nearer to him, clustering about his feet. Michael's eyes were fastened upon the Batoushka's agitated face. "Oh, I wish we could belong to you!" he cried. "But we cannot! We cannot!" "But we can pray together, my children," said Father Cyril. Kneeling down in the midst of the children, under the roof of the deserted hut, where alone the proscribed Stundists dared to worship, the Batoushka offered a simple prayer, intelligible even to little Clava, that God would be with them in the troublous times that were coming, and save them from all evil, especially the sin of disobeying His voice when He spoke through their conscience. When they rose from their knees, he kissed each one of them on the forehead; and they bent their heads as he pronounced a priestly benediction upon them. The Batoushka and the band of childish heretics were very near to each other at that moment. Father Cyril walked slowly homewards through the thickly-grown forest. He felt sure that he could win the people back to Orthodoxy but for the persecution they were always encountering. He had no faith in coercive measures. Besides, he acknowledged sadly and reluctantly that a vast accumulation of superstitious rites and beliefs was suffocating the Church. He had never been so conscious of it as since he had lived in this remote country parish, where none of the spirit of town life breathed over the stagnant waters. When at last he came in sight of the church-house, he saw his wife—the young Matoushka, as the villagers called her—standing at the door, looking out anxiously for his return. She held in her hand a large official-looking packet, which she raised above her head as he came in sight. "From the consistory," she called out, "with the archbishop's seal. Oh, I am so curious!"