old and experienced man, you will feel the better for it. And so shall we. Look at your old mother, how she is suffering."
"Verochka——!"
"And to me——" his voice trembled, as though something in it had broken in two, "and to me, is it easy, think you? As though I did not see that you were devoured by some grief——, but what is it? And I, your father, am kept in ignorance. Is it right?"
Vera still kept silence. Father Ignaty stroked his beard with special precaution, as though he feared that his fingers would involuntarily begin to tear it, and continued:
"Against my wishes you went to St. Petersburg—did I curse you for your disobedience? Or did I refuse you money? Or do you say I was not kind? Well, why don't you speak? See, the good your St. Petersburg has done you!"
Father Ignaty ceased speaking, and there rose before his mind's eye something big, granitebuilt, terrible, full of unknown dangers, and of strange callous people. And there alone and weak was his Vera, and there she had been ruined. An angry hatred of that terrible incomprehensible city arose in Father Ignaty's soul, together with anger towards his daughter, who kept silent, so obstinately silent.
"St. Petersburg has nothing to do with it," said Vera crossly, and closed her eyes. "But
