It was now almost four years since Petrovitch had become totally blind. God’s hand had touched him gently, and the touch softened and ennobled him. The interests of commercial life, the buying, selling, and getting gain, which once occupied him so intensely, had faded from him now; and if still he ruled his household with a strong hand, it was less by fear and more by love. Feodor had learned to read on purpose to while away the long hours for him, though there were not many books in the Prussian language likely to interest him. For romances in the French style, whether translated or imitated, he cared nothing at all; history, which he would have greatly enjoyed, had still to be naturalized in Russia; and, unhappily, the best Book of all was then locked away from the Russian in a casket of which the key was well-nigh lost--the old Slavonic tongue, more unintelligible to Petrovitch than the English of Chaucer would be to us. But a friend of his, Pope Yefim, a priest of much more than average intelligence and seriousness, used often to visit him, and to tell him Scripture narratives, and repeat for him prayers or passages from the Psalter. “I can no longer raise my eyes to the holy pictures,” Petrovitch was wont to say, “so I must learn to lift up my heart to God.” To-day Ivan found him surrounded by several members of his family. His eldest son stood before him; two or three others, sons or grandsons, were at hand; and Feodor, now a fine lad of sixteen, had perched himself as usual upon one of the arms of his chair. “Father, your will is law,” Ivan Petrovitch was saying. “Still it is rather hard upon me to be chained to desk and ledger because I am the eldest son, while sons, nephews, and grandsons are doing their duty.” “Thou too wilt be doing thine,” the old man returned. “What if it be a harder one? Is it thy part, or mine, to choose?--But hush! are not the footsteps that I hear those of my lord’s grandson?” Ivan came forward, and the usual greetings were exchanged, though on his side in a tone of embarrassment, which did not escape the quick ear of Petrovitch. “Prince Ivan,” he said, “you are in trouble. Do you wish to speak with me alone?” Petrovitch usually gave Ivan the title of prince, although, on account of his father’s disgrace and his own equivocal position, the heir of Pojarsky had forborne to assume it in general society--a modest reticence which Petrovitch not only approved, but had himself actually recommended. “It is true, dädushka,” Ivan answered frankly; “I wish to speak with you alone.” At a sign from Petrovitch the others left the room, and without waiting for Ivan to begin, the old man said, “I know what you feel. Speak freely. What can I do for you?” Ivan was greatly surprised at this address. Which of those who were present last night, he asked himself, could possibly have told the story of his folly, and how could it have found its way so quickly to the ears of Petrovitch?