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 brows he knew that she felt his look. She did not raise her head; but the high-plaited collar which reached to her little pink ear trembled a little. He saw that she was stifling a sigh, and her hand, imprisoned in its long glove, trembled as it held the candle.

The whole affair of the shirt, his late arrival, his conversation with his relatives and friends, their displeasure, his ridiculous position,—everything at once vanished from his memory, and he was conscious of a mixed feeling of terror and joy.

The archdeacon, a tall, handsome man, his hair curling all around his head and wearing a stikhar, or surplice, of silver cloth, came briskly forward, and with the customary gesture raised his stole with two fingers, and stopped before the priest.

"Bless us, O Lord!" slowly, one after the other, rocking the atmosphere into billows of sound, echoed the solemn syllables.

"May the Lord bless you now and through all ages," replied the old priest in a sweet and musical voice, still turning over the leaves.

And the response, chanted by the invisible choir, filled the church to the very roof of the vault with a deep, full sound, which increased, then ceased for a moment, and softly died away.

They prayed as usual for the eternal repose and welfare of their souls, for the synod, and the emperor, and then for the servants of God, Konstantin and Yekaterina, that day about to wed.

"Let us pray the Lord to send them His love. His peace, and His aid," the whole church seemed to say in the voice of the archdeacon.

Levin listened to these words, and was impressed by them.

"How did they know that aid was exactly what I need? Yes, aid. What can I know, what can I do, without aid?" he thought, recalling his recent doubts and fears.

When the deacon had ended the liturgy, the priest,