Sofya Lvovna looked round at the other nuns, and went on in a subdued voice: 

“There’ve been so many changes at home . . . you know, I’m married to Colonel Yagitch.  You remember him, no doubt. . . .  I am very happy with him.”

“Well, thank God for that.  And is your father quite well?

“Yes, he is quite well.  He often speaks of you.  You must come and see us during the holidays, Olga, won’t you?”

“I will come,” said Olga, and she smiled.  “I’ll come on the second day.”

Sofya Lvovna began crying, she did not know why, and for a minute she shed tears in silence, then she wiped her eyes and said: 

“Rita will be very sorry not to have seen you.  She is with us too.  And Volodya’s here.  They are close to the gate.  How pleased they’d be if you’d come out and see them.  Let’s go out to them; the service hasn’t begun yet.’’

“Let us,” Olga agreed.  She crossed herself three times and went out with Sofya Lvovna to the entrance.

“So you say you’re happy, Sonitchka?” she asked when they came out at the gate.

“Very.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

The two Volodyas, seeing the nun, got out of the sledge and greeted her respectfully.  Both were visibly touched by her pale face and her black monastic dress, and both were pleased that she had remembered them and come to greet them.  That she might not be cold, Sofya Lvovna wrapped her up in a rug and put one half of her fur coat round her.  Her tears had relieved and purified her heart, and she was glad that this noisy, restless, and, in reality, impure night should unexpectedly end so purely and serenely.  And to keep Olga by her a little longer she suggested: 

“Let us take her for a drive!  Get in, Olga; we’ll go a little way.”

The men expected the nun to refuse—­saints don’t dash about in three-horse sledges; but to their surprise, she consented and got into the sledge.  And while the horses were galloping to the city gate all were silent, and only tried to make her warm and comfortable, and each of them was thinking of what she had been in the past and what she was now.  Her face was now passionless, inexpressive, cold, pale, and transparent, as though there were water, not blood, in her veins.  And two or three years ago she had been plump and rosy, talking about her suitors and laughing at every trifle.

Near the city gate the sledge turned back; when it stopped ten minutes later near the nunnery, Olga got out of the sledge.  The bell had begun to ring more rapidly.

“The Lord save you,” said Olga, and she bowed low as nuns do.

“Mind you come, Olga.”

“I will, I will.”