“Why was I not called before?”

Father Vasily drank his tea without milk (it was Friday); and then, taking the sacred elements, put on his fur coat and cap and went out into the porch with a resolute air. The peasant was awaiting for him there. “Good morning, Mitri,” said Father Vastly, and turning up his sleeve, made the sign of the cross, after which he stretched out his small strong hand with its short-cut nails for him to kiss, and walked out on to the steps. The sun had risen, but was not yet visible behind the overhanging clouds. The peasant brought the cart out from the yard, and drove up to the front door. Father Vasily stepped quickly on the axle of the back wheel and sat down on the seat, which was bound round with hay. Mitri getting in beside him, whipped up the big-barrelled mare with its drooping ears, and the cart rattled over the frozen mud. A fine snow was falling.