so soon after the funeral of their daughter. '"Nastasya," he called more gently, "where's the canary?"
The cook, who had cried so much that her nose was swollen and become as red as a beet, answered rudely:
"Don't know. It flew away."
"Why did you let it go?' said Father Ignaty, angrily knitting his brows.
Nastasya burst out crying, and wiping her eyes with the ends of a print handkerchief she wore over her head, said through her tears:
"The dear little soul of the young mistress. How could I keep it?"
And it seemed even to Father Ignaty that the happy little yellow canary, which used to sing always with its head thrown back, was really the soul of Vera, and that if it had not flown away it would have been impossible to say that Vera was dead. And he became still more angry with the cook, and shouted:
"Get along!" and when Nastasya did not at once make for the door, added "Fool!"
II
From the day of the funeral silence reigned in the little house. It was not stillness, for that is the mere absence of noise, but it was silence which means that those who kept silence could,
