These last words Kassyan uttered quickly, almost unintelligibly; then he said something more which I could not catch at all, and such a strange expression passed over his face that I involuntarily recalled the epithet 'cracked.' He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to himself again. 'What sunshine!' he murmured in a low voice. 'It is a blessing, oh, Lord! What warmth in the woods!' He gave a movement of the shoulders and fell into silence. With a vague look round him he began softly to sing. I could not catch all the words of his slow chant; I heard the following: 'They call me Kassyan, But my nickname's the Flea.' 'Oh!' I thought, 'so he improvises.' Suddenly he started and ceased singing, looking intently at a thick part of the wood. I turned and saw a little peasant girl, about seven years old, in a blue frock, with a checked handkerchief over her head, and a woven bark-basket in her little bare sunburnt hand. She had certainly not expected to meet us; she had, as they say, 'stumbled upon' us, and she stood motionless in a shady recess among the thick foliage of the nut-trees, looking dismayed at me with her black eyes. I had scarcely time to catch a glimpse of her; she dived behind a tree. 'Annushka! Annushka! come here, don't be afraid!' cried the old man caressingly. 'I'm afraid,' came her shrill voice. 'Don't be afraid, don't be afraid; come to me.' Annushka left her hiding place in silence, walked softly round--her little childish feet scarcely sounded on the thick grass--and came out of the bushes near the old man. She was not a child of seven, as I had fancied at first, from her diminutive stature, but a girl of thirteen or fourteen. Her whole person was small and thin, but very neat and graceful, and her pretty little face was strikingly like Kassyan's own, though he was certainly not handsome. There were the same thin features, and the same strange expression, shy and confiding, melancholy and shrewd, and her gestures were the same.... Kassyan kept his eyes fixed on her; she took her stand at his side. 'Well, have you picked any mushrooms?' he asked. 'Yes,' she answered with a shy smile. 'Did you find many?' 'Yes.' (She stole a swift look at him and smiled again.) 'Are they white ones?' 'Yes.' 'Show me, show me.... (She slipped the basket off her arm and half-lifted the big burdock leaf which covered up the mushrooms.) 'Ah!' said Kassyan, bending down over the basket; 'what splendid ones! Well done, Annushka!' 'She's your daughter, Kassyan, isn't she?' I asked. (Annushka's face flushed faintly.) 'No, well, a relative,' replied Kassyan with affected indifference. 'Come, Annushka, run along,' he added at once, 'run along, and God be with you! And take care.' 'But why should she go on foot?' I interrupted. 'We could take her with us.' Annushka blushed like a poppy, grasped the handle of her basket with both hands, and looked in trepidation at the old man.