'"God knows, it wasn't me!" the poor fellow repeated, sobbing. The woman herself was horrified. She had never expected such a dreadful termination, and she started howling on her own account! She fell to imploring all and each for mercy, swore the hens had been found, that she was ready to clear it all up. . . .
'Of course, all that was no sort of use. Those were war-times, sir! Discipline! The woman sobbed louder and louder.
'Yegor, who had received absolution from the priest, turned to me.
'"Tell her, your honour, not to upset herself . . . I've forgiven her." '
My acquaintance, as he repeated this, his servant's last words, murmured, 'My poor Yegor, dear fellow, a real saint!' and the tears trickled down his old cheeks.
August 1879.
WHAT SHALL I THINK? . . .
What shall I think when I come to die, if only I am in a condition to think anything then?
Shall I think how little use I have made of
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