to look at the old woman; and the old woman is standing, with folded arms. She smiles as she looks at her old man, and the old man smiles back. The old woman went on, "I am speaking the truth, not jesting. We sought for happiness for half a century, and as long as we were rich we did not find it; but now that we have nothing left, and have to go out to service, we have found such happiness that we ask for nothing better."

"But wherein consists your happiness now?"

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Well, in this while we were rich, my old man and I never had an hour's rest. We never had time to talk, nor to think about our souls, nor to pray to God. There was nothing for us but care. When we had guests, it was a bother how to treat them, what to give them, so that they might not talk ill about us. Then, when guests went away, we had to look after our workpeople they must have rest, they must have enough to eat, and we must see to it that nothing that is ours gets lost. So we sinned. Then, again, care lest the wolf should kill a colt or a calf, or lest thieves should drive off our horses. You lay down to sleep, you can't sleep for fear the sheep trample the lambs. You go out, you walk in the night: you just get yourself calmed down again, care how to get food for the winter. Besides this, my old man and I never agreed. He says we must do so, and I say we must do so; and we begin to quarrel, we sin. So we lived in worry and care, in worry and care, and never knew the happiness of life."

"Well, and now?"

"Now when my old man and I get up in the morn. ing, we always have a talk, in love and sympathy; we have nothing to quarrel about, nothing to worry about;

our only care is to serve our khozyáïn. We work according to our strength, we work willingly, so that our khozyáïn may not lose, but gain. When we come in, we have dinner, we have supper, we have kumýs. If it is cold, we have our kizyák1 to warm us, and a sheepskin shuba. And we have time to talk and think about our souls, and to pray to God. For fifty years we sought for happiness, and only now we have found it!"

The guests began to laugh.

But Ilyás said,

"Don't laugh, brothers: this thing is no jest, but human life. And the old woman and I were foolish when we wept over the loss of our property, but now God has revealed the truth to us; and it is not for our own consolation, but for your good, that we reveal it to you."

And the Mulla said, "This is a wise saying, and Ilyás has told the exact truth; and this is written also in the Scriptures."

And the guests ceased laughing, and were lost in thought.

1 Kizyák, or tizyák, a Tatar word, meaning a brick made of dried dung.

THE THREE MENDICANTS.

1886.

"But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.

Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him."- MATT. vi. 6, 7.

A BISHOP Set sail in a ship from the city of Archangel to Solovki.1 In the same ship sailed some pilgrims to the saints.

The wind was favorable, the weather clear, the sea was not rough. The pilgrims, as they were lying down, as they were lunching, as they were sitting in a crowd, conversed together.

The bishop came on deck, began to walk up and down on the bridge. As he approaches the bow, he sees the people crowded together. A little muzhík is pointing his hand at something in the sea, and talking; and the people are listening.

The bishop stood still, and looked in the direction that the muzhitchók was pointing: nothing is to be seen, except the sea glistening in the sun.

When the

The bishop came closer, began to listen. muzhitchók saw the bishop, he took off his cap, and stopped speaking. The people also, when they saw the bishop, took off their shápkas, and paid their respects.

1 The Slovetsky Monastery, at the mouth of the Dvina River.

"Don't mind me, brothers," said the bishop. have also come to listen to what you are saying, my good friend."

"This fisherman was telling us about some mendicants," "1 said a merchant, taking courage.

"What about the mendicants?" asked the bishop, as he came to the gunwale, and sat down on a box. "Tell me too: I should like to hear. What were you pointing at?"

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Well, then,2 yonder's the little island just heaving in sight," said the little peasant; and he pointed toward the port-side. "On that very islet, three mendicants live, working out their salvation."

1

"Where is the little island?" asked the bishop.

"Here, look along my arm, if you please. Way out there, at the left of that little cloud, you can see it."

The bishop looked and looked: the water gleamed in the sun, and he could see nothing unusual.

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"I don't see it," says he. "What sort of mendicants are they who live on the little island?”

"Hermits," replied the peasant. "For a long time I had heard tell of 'em, but I never chanced to see them until last summer."

And the fisherman again began to relate how he had been out fishing, and how he was driven to that island, and knew not where he was. In the morning he started to look around, and stumbled upon a little earthen hut; and he found in the hut one mendicant, and then two others came in. They fed him, and dried him, and helped him repair his boat.

"What sort of men were they?" asked the bishop.

"One was rather small, humpbacked, very, very old; he was dressed in well-worn stole; he must have been more than a hundred years old; his beard was already silvery white; but he always had a smile ready, and he was as serene as an angel of heaven. The second was taller, also old, in a torn kaftan; his long beard was growing a little yellowish, but he was a strong man; he turned my boat over, a tub, and I didn't even have to help him he was also a jolly man. But the third was tall, with a long beard reaching to his knee, and white as the moon; but he was gloomy; his eyes glared out from under beetling brows; and he was naked, all save a plaited belt.”

"What did they say to you?" asked the bishop. "They did every thing mostly without speaking, and they talked very little among themselves: one had only to look, and the other understood. I began to ask the tall one if they had lived there long. He frowned, muttered something, grew almost angry then the little old

man instantly seized him by the hand, smiled, and the large man said nothing. But the old man said, ‘Excuse us,' and smiled."

While the peasant was speaking, the ship sailed nearer and nearer to the islands.

"There, now you can see plainly," said the merchant. "Now please look, your reverence,' 1 said he, pointing. The bishop tried to look, and he barely managed to make out a black speck - the little island.

The bishop gazed and gazed; and he went from the bow to the stern, and he approached the helmsman. "What is that little island," says he, "that you see

over yonder?"

1 Vashe preosvyashchénstvo.