olled in
warm drops into his grey bristly beard.

V

Ivan the Runaway could not bury Anjuta's mother, for he had no spade. He
contented himself with collecting twigs, pine-branches, and stones in
order to cover the body of the poor tramp. The little girl at first
wanted to hold his hands, but at his sharp rebuke she crept into a ditch
and remained there crying bitterly, while he finished his work.

"Well, why are you crying?" he asked at last to comfort her.

"I am sad about mother."

"Your mother is dead; she won't come back."

"How can she be dead?"

"Have you never seen any one die?"

"Oh yes, Uncle Andron, whom God took to Himself."

"Well, God has taken your mother to Himself. Perhaps He wanted her."

"There was also the grey horse," said the child. "God took him too. When
will He take me?"

The old man looked long at the child, and something like pity stirred
him.

"For you it is still too early," he said gloomily.

"But what shall I do without mother?" She again held his finger with her
little hand.

"Don't be afraid. I will stay with you. No one will touch you; I have a
gun."

The old man picked up two slender sticks and tied them together with a
strip of birch-bark, so as to make a rude cross. "Now your mother's
grave is finished. Make a prayer, Anjuta; then we will go."

"I don't know how to pray; mother never taught me. I can only say, 'Give
me a piece of bread for Jesus' sake.'"

"Have you never been in church?"

"No; mother and I--we always stood before the church door when people
came out and cried, 'Good people, give us bread for Jesus' sake; we have
eaten nothing for two days.'"

"Well then, God can ask nothing more of you, poor thing," said Ivan in a
more friendly tone and stroked her. "He will be tolerant. Cross yourself
and kiss this cross. That's right. And now say, 'Lord, have mercy on her
poor soul.'"

"Lord, have mercy on her poor soul," the child repeated.

"Now let us go on. We have no time to loiter."

It was not till evening that Ivan, carrying the tired child on his arm,
reached a little village. He waited till it was dark and lights showed
in the windows. As though they scented a thief in him, the dogs raised
an ear-splitting noise. Anjuta, who had been asleep, nestling against
his cheek, started with fright, and began to cry; he told her harshly to
be quiet and approached the last cottage in the village which stood near
the wood.

"Who is knocking? Is it a