A widower for already several years, the childless Father Peter led the life of a hermit. His gates were always closed, and an enormous watch-dog, Polkan, on hearing the slightest noise would bark in the most furious fashion. The few and far between visitors who wished to speak to the priest always came through the street-door, which was also kept constantly closed. The letter of his niece gave a great deal of pleasure to Father Peter, but he also found in it something very extraordinary. Vâra wrote to him, that the young mistress of the neighbouring estate had a little while ago received from abroad, together with a letter addressed to her, a packet of papers covered with writing, which, as the letter told her, had been found on the sea-shore in a bottle. “Dear godfather and uncle, forgive my foolishness,” wrote Vâra to her uncle, “but after having read these papers together, the young lady and I have decided on coming to Petersburg, and we shall soon be there. Whom could I recommend the unfortunate orphan to go to if not you. She buried her parents a year ago. In the papers sent her there is so much concerning an important person, that before deciding on speaking about it, there is a great deal to think over. First, the young lady thought of sending the papers to Moscow, to the empress, but on reflection we decided otherwise. You, dear uncle, know everything. You go everywhere, you are respected by every one, therefore you can easily advise us what to do. The name of the young lady is Irena Lvovna, and her surname--she is the daughter of the Brigadier Rakitin.” “Ah! youth, youth!” thoughtfully shaking his head, said the priest on reading this letter. “Ah! the magpies, what crazy ideas! to come all the way from Tchernigoff to Petersburg to get my advice.… They’ve fallen--well--they’ve found some one!” Every evening, at twilight, Father Peter was wont to light the candles, and having put on his house cassock, to walk up and down the little linen drugget which ran through all the rooms, from the little hall, through the drawing-room, dining-room, and into the bedroom. He would look after his plants, especially his geraniums, standing on the window-sills; pull off the dry leaves and pick out the weeds; and would arrange the books on the table, and gaze at his favourite blackbird asleep in its cage, at the “ikons” and images in the corner, at the lighted lamp, and would begin musing and thinking--when at last would those rooms be filled with mirth and life, when would his magpie come?