Praskóvya Mikháylovna pressed her hands to her withered breast, opened her mouth, and stood petrified, staring at the pilgrim with dilated eyes.

“It can’t be! Stëpa! Sergéy! Father Sergius!”

“Yes, it is I,” said Sergius in a low voice. “Only not Sergius, or Father Sergius, but a great sinner, Stepán Kasátsky⁠—a great and lost sinner. Take me in and help me!”

“It’s impossible! How have you so humbled yourself? But come in.”

She reached out her hand, but he did not take it and only followed her in.

But where was she to take him? The lodging was a small one. Formerly she had had a tiny room, almost a closet, for herself, but later she had given it up to her daughter, and Másha was now sitting there rocking the baby.

“Sit here for the present,” she said to Sergius, pointing to a bench in the kitchen.