And what would he be doing a year hence? Would he once more climb this height, under this bronze bell, to arouse with a resounding peal the lightly-slumbering night, or would he be resting ... down there, in some dark corner of the graveyard, under a cross? God knows!... He was ready, but in the meantime the Lord called him once more to greet the holiday. “All glory be to God!” whispered his lips, accustomed to the old formula. Mikheyich raised his eyes towards the sky, dense with millions of stars, and crossed himself. * * * * * “Mikheyich, Mikheyich!” a trembling voice, also that of an old man, suddenly called him from below. The aged sexton looked up towards the belfry, even fixed his palm over his blinking, tear-wet eyes, and still could not see Mikheyich. “What do you want? I am here,” answered the bell-ringer, leaning out from the belfry. “Can’t you see me?” “No, I can’t see. Isn’t it time to strike? What do you think?” Both of them glanced at the stars. Thousands of God’s lights twinkled on high. The fiery “Wagoner” was already far above the horizon. Mikheyich pondered. “No, not yet; wait just a little longer.... I know when to ...” * * * * * He knew. He had no need of a timepiece. God’s stars always told him when the time came. The earth and the sky, the white cloud floating silently across the expanse of blue, the indistinct murmur of dark pines below, and the rippling of the stream concealed by the dark--all were familiar to him, near to him.... Not in vain had he spent his life here. For the moment his entire long past unrolled before him.... He recalled how he ascended the belfry with his father for the first time.... Good Lord! how long ago it was!--and what a short time it seemed!... He saw himself once more a fair-haired lad; his eyes were kindled; the wind--not the sort that raises the dust of the street, but rather a more rare wind, flapping, as it were, its noiseless wings high above the earth--played with his hair.... There below, so far, so far away, he saw some sort of little people; and the houses of the village also seemed small, and the forest receded into the distance, and the round-shaped meadow, upon which stood the village, seemed immense, almost boundless. “Well, here it is, all here!” smiled the old man, glancing at the small spot of earth. “So life, too, is like that,” he reflected. “When one is young, one sees neither its end nor its edge.” ... And yet here it was, as if in the palm of one’s hand, from the very beginning to the very grave he had just been contemplating in the corner of the burial-ground.... What of that? Glory be to the Lord!--It was time for rest. It was a hard road, and he had traversed it an honest man; and the damp earth was his mother.... Soon--if only soon!... * * * * *