"I am coming! I hear! I hear! The lunatics to ring like that!" she grumbled, taking down the great key from the wall; "here is fine music." She descended, shivering, and opened with difficulty the large gate which grated on its hinges. "Well, what makes you ring like that? We are not deaf," she said to a huge footman wrapped in his fur-lined livery. "Where have you come from and from whom?" she asked, seeing a closed carriage standing a little way off. "Let me pass first, little old woman; I shall find my way quite well." "Answer first; to whom are you going?" "To the Lady Abbess, old crow of a portress! It is Madame the wife of General Khlobestovsky who sends me; don't you recognize me? Take your eyes out of your pocket." "Yes, if one had time to study your face! You have all the same faces, as like each other as the curbstones of pavements. It is a sin to have to do with you. Wait till I call Sister Anastasia; she will go to our Mother. Have you a letter? Give it me. A pretty word--'crow of a portress.' You think yourself somebody because you are covered with clothes belonging to your master. Wait! Wait! when the hour of your death strikes, you will remember that 'crow of a portress,' and you will repent. But God is good; He will pardon you; because you lack brains. Consider at any rate, great booby, where you are. 'A crow' ... the idiot!" II Sister Helene, after having left the empty church, turned to the left to reach her cell. A row of little windows, constructed at different heights, illuminated the darkness here and there, and were reflected in the pools of water formed by the last rain-fall. A pavement formed of planks ran along the length of these little dwellings; there was no uniformity in their design, but some of them were picturesque; by daylight the convent presented an original aspect. None of these dwellings resembled each other; some were two stories, others a story and a half high. In these lived the sisters who were well-to-do. They were painted different colours--grey, rose, white, etc. In summer lime trees and birches sheltered them from the sun. To-day the wind whistled through the naked branches. Helene had not yet reached her door, when she saw approaching her, like a red point in the darkness, some one carrying a lantern. "Who comes there?" she asked. "Is it you, Sister?" answered a youthful voice whose musical tones sounded strange in the blackness of the night. "What! Is it you? You come to meet me?" "Yes, I have prepared the samovar (tea-urn). As you did not come, I feared something had happened, and here I am." "I had forgotten in the church how time passed, and Sister Seraphine made me come out." "It was time; it has struck seven." "And you--what have you been doing? I have not seen you the whole day." "I have been painting; then I tried to read, but my head felt heavy. I think my John the Baptist is not a success." "Why?"