Father Seraphim was a saintly monk and ghostly counsellor of the type of Father Zosima, familiar to English readers of _The Brothers Karamazof_. He accomplished extraordinary holy exploits during his youth and middle age, conquering the flesh and denying the world, and in his old age became famous for his godly sagacity and humility. When he died his body was reputed to have in it holy charm, and thousands of peasants brought their sick and their blind, and their sins and their sorrows to the miracle-working relics. Finally the Empress, wishing to have a male child, abode at the monastery and prayed, and Father Seraphim gave Russia a Tsarevitch. The Tsar named Seraphim as a saint, and the shrine of Sarof, already astonishingly sought of pilgrims, gained a great ecclesiastical distinction. Hence this grand oleograph on the wall. I slept as one sleeps who, after weeks in town, is one day surcharged with open air. Next morning the whole family was up before dawn, and the samovar was on the table in the grey light of sunrise. A man from the village decided to accompany me to Sarof. “Haven’t been there for four years,” said he, “and now I’m homesick to see it again. I think I’ll go and pray a little.” We talked of Father Seraphim on the way. “Is the cell still there where he fed the bear with bread?” I asked. “Yes, it’s there; about five versts from the monastery away in the woods. There is a shrine there now. You’ll see the stone, too, on which he prayed a thousand days and a thousand nights without moving away. And the spring that he found. Many people have been cured there. It’s quite unusual water. Will you bathe?” “Perhaps,” said I. “But the weather’s cold.” “No one ever takes cold there,” said the peasant. “It’s quite safe. The water is very very cold. But there’s something about it. You take it home, it doesn’t go bad like ordinary water.” “He was a great saint, this Father Seraphim!” “Of course; he was a God-serviceable man, he did many _podvigs_.”