he dust with
his bare, bony feet. "That's fine, Fyokla, old girl. The grass and
the trees are fed by the rain, as we are by bread. And as for the
thunder, don't you be frightened, little orphan. Why should it kill
a little thing like you?"

As soon as the rain begins, the wind drops. The only sound is the
patter of rain dropping like fine shot on the young rye and the
parched road.

"We shall get soaked, Fyolka," mutters Terenty. "There won't be a
dry spot left on us. . . . Ho-ho, my girl! It's run down my neck!
But don't be frightened, silly. . . . The grass will be dry again,
the earth will be dry again, and we shall be dry again. There is
the same sun for us all."

A flash of lightning, some fourteen feet long, gleams above their
heads. There is a loud peal of thunder, and it seems to Fyokla that
something big, heavy, and round is rolling over the sky and tearing
it open, exactly over her head.

"Holy, holy, holy . . ." says Terenty, crossing himself. "Don't be
afraid, little orphan! It is not from spite that it thunders."

Terenty's and Fyokla's feet are covered with lumps of heavy, wet
clay. It is slippery and difficult to walk, but Terenty strides on
more and more rapidly. The weak little beggar-girl is breathless
and ready to drop.

But at last they go into the count's copse. The washed trees, stirred
by a gust of wind, drop a perfect waterfall upon them. Terenty
stumbles over stumps and begins to slacken his pace.

"Whereabouts is Danilka?" he asks. "Lead me to him."

Fyokla leads him into a thicket, and, after going a quarter of a
mile, points to Danilka. Her brother, a little fellow of eight,
with hair as red as ochre and a pale sickly face, stands leaning
against a tree, and, with his head on one side, looking sideways
at the sky. In one hand he holds his shabby old cap, the other is
hidden in an old lime tree. The boy is gazing at the stormy sky,
and apparently not thinking of his trouble. Hearing footsteps and
seeing the cobbler he gives a sickly smile and says:

"A terrible lot of thunder, Terenty. . . . I've never heard so much
thunder in all my life."

"And where is your hand?"

"In the hole. . . . Pull it out, please, Terenty!"

The wood had broken at the edge of the hole and jammed Danilka's
hand: he could push it farther in, but could not pull it out. Terenty
snaps off the broken piece, and the boy's hand, red and crushed,
is released.

"It's terrible how it's thundering," the boy s