Velia was four years younger than himself; and he could recollect her as a little child, following him with tottering feet, and stretching out her tiny arms to him. Would his mother be watching over her, as he sometimes felt sure she was near to him? Velia had never felt her presence as he felt it. Yet, if it was only a fancy that his mother came to him, it was surely true that God cared for both him and Velia. "Not a sparrow falleth to the ground without your Father! Are you not much better than the birds?" he murmured to himself. He was not afraid for himself. On the contrary, he looked forward almost with pleasure to the long and exciting, though forced, journey he was about to take. What were hardships to him? Many men encountered them for the sake of money; others from a thirst for adventures. He would be journeying with his father and his friend Sergius, every step of the terrible wildernesses through which it was said they would have to pass. He must keep up heart and courage, that his father might never have the grief of seeing his spirits flag. Whatever happened, he must show himself brave and patient and cheerful. He was strong, and hardened to fatigue by the toils of the past winter. Surely if a delicate little creature like Clava could live through the long journey, there could not be anything very dreadful for boys like Sergius and himself. But he felt grieved when his thoughts reverted to Father Cyril; and he began to realise that he might get into trouble as soon as it was discovered that little Clava had been stolen away. Michael had written a letter, which he had left on Clava's bed, imploring Father Cyril, for God's sake, not to have the child pursued and claimed; begging him not to betray them to Okhrim the Starosta, or to the police who were to convey the women and children to Kovylsk. If the child was taken away again, Tatiania would go mad; and nobody could say what severe measures might be taken against Sergius and himself. Michael felt tolerably sure Father Cyril would grant his petition, even at the risk of trouble to himself. When they were about half-way across the steppe, Paraska produced a leather bag out of her pocket, and addressed Michael with tears in her eyes, which were red and sunken with much weeping. "Michael," she said, "going into exile wants all the money you can get. I've been saving every kopek I could to go some day to my poor husband Denim. I forsook him for the sake of my little boys. Take the money; for there are many of you, and only one of me; and I fear I shall never save enough." "But, Paraska," he answered, "I think you can get leave to join your husband, if you ask the governor. You might have come with us, if you were willing to give up all hope of finding your children." "Oh, why didn't I know?" she cried. "I shall never find my boys! I'll come after you, if that's true, Michael. You'll see Demyan first; tell him I'm coming soon."