By hardly visible scratches on the bark of a tree she showed me where the squirrel had made his home in a hollow, and I would climb up and ravage the nest of the animal, robbing him of his winter store of nuts. Sometimes there were as many as ten pounds in one nest. And one day, when I was thus engaged, a hunter planted twenty-seven shot in the right side of my body. Grandmother got eleven of them out with a needle, but the rest remained under my skin for many years, coming out by degrees. Grandmother was pleased with me for bearing pain patiently. "Brave boy!" she praised me. "He who is most patient will be the cleverest." Whenever she had saved a little money from the sale of mushrooms and nuts, she used to lay it on window-sills as "secret alms," and she herself went about in rags and patches even on Sundays. "You go about worse than a beggar. You put me to shame," grumbled grandfather. "What does it matter to you? I am not your daughter. I am not looking for a husband." Their quarrels had become more frequent. "I am not more sinful than others," cried grandfather in injured tones, "but my punishment is greater." Grandmother used to tease him. "The devils know what every one is worth." And she would say to me privately: "My old man is frightened of devils. See how quickly he is aging! It is all from fear; eh, poor man!" I had become very hardy during the summer, and quite savage through living in the forest, and I had lost all interest in the life of my contemporaries, such as Ludmilla. She seemed to me to be tiresomely sensible. One day grandfather returned from the town very wet. It was autumn, and the rains were falling. Shaking himself on the threshold like a sparrow, he said triumphantly: "Well, young rascal, you are going to a new situation to-morrow." "Where now?" asked grandmother, angrily. "To your sister Matrena, to her son." "O Father, you have done very wrong." "Hold your tongue, fool! They will make a man of him." Grandmother let her head droop and said nothing more. In the evening I told Ludmilla that I was going to live in the town. "They are going to take me there soon," she informed me, thoughtfully. "Papa wants my leg to be taken off altogether. Without it I should get well." She had grown very thin during the summer; the skin of her face had assumed a bluish tint, and her eyes had grown larger. "Are you afraid?" I asked her. "Yes," she replied, and wept silently. I had no means of consoling her, for I was frightened myself at the prospect of life in town. We sat for a long time in painful silence, pressed close against each other. If it had been summer, I should have asked grandmother to come begging with me, as she had done when she was a girl. We might have taken Ludmilla with us; I could have drawn her along in a little cart. But it was autumn. A damp wind blew up the streets, the sky was heavy with rain-clouds, the earth frowned. It had begun to look dirty and unhappy. CHAPTER IV