better off where he is now; he was too pure, too good for this world. This gloomy, silent monologue forced tears from Romashov's eyes, but he did not wipe them away. It was so delicious to imagine himself a martyr, an innocent victim to the malignity of mankind. He had now reached the white-beet field, the extensive surface of which had an almost oppressive influence on Romashov. He climbed on to a little hillock just beside the ravine in which the railway ran. There he stood. This side of the ravine lay in deep shadow, but the opposite one was so powerfully illuminated that one might fancy it possible to distinguish every blade of grass. The ravine was very precipitous near the place where Romashov was now standing, and at the bottom of it the rails, worn bright by traffic, shone. Far away in the field on the other side of the railway the white, pyramid-like tents could be seen in even rows. A little way down the slope of the ravine was a small platform. Romashov glided down to it and sat on the grass. He felt nearly sick from hunger and weariness, and his legs shook from exhaustion. The great deserted field behind him, the air, clear and transparent in spite of the shades of night, the dew-soaked grass--all was sunk in a deep, insidious, luminous silence, the intensity of which was felt by Romashov like a strong buzzing in his ear. Rarely indeed might be heard from a locomotive manoeuvring at the railway station a shrill whistling which, in the solemn stillness of the night, brought with it something impetuous, impatient, and threatening. Romashov laid himself on his back in the grass. The fleecy white clouds right above him stood motionless, but over them the round moon glided rapidly on in the dark firmament which, cold and bare and boundless, riveted Romashov's gaze. All the illimitable space between earth and heaven seemed to him fraught with eternal terror and eternal longing. "There dwells--God," thought Romashov, and suddenly, with a naïve outburst of sorrow, anger, and self-pity, he whispered passionately and bitterly-- "God, why hast Thou turned Thy countenance from me? What offence can I--a miserable worm, a grain of sand--have committed against Thee? Thou art almighty, Thou art good, Thou seest and hearest everything--why hast Thou suffered injustice and malice so to triumph over me?" But instantly afterwards he was filled with alarm at his blasphemous speech, and he went on to say in fervour and anguish-- "No, no; forgive and forget my sinful words. I know Thou art as wise as Thou art merciful, and I shall never murmur any more. Do with me what seems best in Thy sight. I will always submit to Thy will with gratitude and a meek heart."