One day I made the acquaintance of a novice named Grisha, who was employed in the office of the monastery. I had noticed him before. He walked quickly and noisily among the brothers, wore smoked glasses, had an insignificant face, an under-sized body, and walked with his head bent forward, as if he wanted to see nothing but his own path. The day after my conversation with the Abbot, Grisha came into the bakery. Misha had just gone to the brother treasurer to give his accounts. Grisha came in, greeted me low, and asked: "You were at the Abbot's, brother?" "Yes." "Did you talk with him?" "No." "He sent you away?" "Why should he?" Grisha fixed his glasses, became confused and said. "I beg your pardon, in Christ's name." "Did he ever send you away?" I asked. He nodded affirmatively and sat down on the edge of the flour bin, bent forward, coughed dryly and beat the bin with a hook while I told him what the Abbot had said to me. Suddenly he jumped up, straightened to his full height as if on springs, and began to speak in his loud, plaintive, excited voice: "Why do they call this a place for the salvation of the soul when everything here is based upon money; when we live here for money, just as in the world outside? I fled to save myself from the sin of business, and again I fell upon business here. Where shall I flee now?" His whole body trembled, and he told me quickly the history of his life. He was the son of a merchant who owned a bakery, had graduated from a school of commerce, and was placed by his father in his business. "Were it some little nonsense," he said, "then, perhaps, I could deal in it. But with bread it was unpleasant and shameful to me. Bread is indispensable to all. One should not own it to make it the means of trade for human need. Perhaps my father would have broken me had his avarice not broken him. I had a sister, an academy student, gay and proud, who read books and was friendly with all the students. Suddenly my father said to her: "Stop your studying, Elizabeth. I have found a husband for you." 'I don't want him,' she answered. "But my father pulled her hair until my little sister gave in. The bridegroom was the-son of a rich tea merchant--a cross-eyed, large man, vulgar and continually boasting of his wealth. Liza, next to him, looked like a mouse next to a dog. He disgusted her. But my father said: "'You fool, he has shops in many cities on the Volga.' "Well, they were married, and during the wedding supper she went to her room and shot herself in the breast. I found her still living, and she said to me: