When we reached the meeting-place, more than a dozen men on horseback were already there. Close to them stood a big shallow sleigh, the runners of which were a pair of birch poles. In it were ropes, a hatchet, food and forage. The driver of this was Daria, an old woman, whom I have already mentioned once or twice. I knew her story. The death of her husband and two children of typhoid fever had caused her to be despondent for several years. Then some one left a foundling at her door. She adopted the child, trying in every way to make a worthy man of him. To do this, she accepted all kinds of odd jobs, even such as were generally given to men. She built fences, prepared the dead for burial, acted as midwife and nurse, delivered messages that nobody else cared to undertake, sometimes at night or during severe storms. She seemed to be afraid of nothing in the world and of nobody. When she first began to work in this way, she was pitied and helped; a little later, she was laughed at, and unpleasant names were applied to her; but finally, all came to have a deep respect for her and to rely on her help when trouble came. Long years of humiliation and struggle for a living, and the overcoming of all obstacles, had made her somewhat imperative in manner. She always expressed a decided opinion. Many people thought she really knew everything, and one or two superstitious persons even insinuated that she was a witch. When money or its equivalent in milk, eggs or flour was offered for her services, she accepted it from those who could pay. From others she refused everything, giving instead something from her own small store. I thought her very odd, but liked her. Nevertheless, to-day,--well, to-day, it seemed to me that it was not fitting that I, a Cossack, should have to remain in the rear with a woman. Comforting myself with the knowledge that Daria was a very unusual woman, I bade her good morning. "Good morning, you rascal," she answered. "What are you doing here? I know that your mother is worrying about you." I did not think that this needed a reply. Jumping down from the mule but holding on to the reins, I joined a group of Cossacks who formed a circle in front of their horses. "I guess we're all here," remarked Mikhailov, an active, talkative fellow who had lately returned from actual service with the rank of non-commissioned officer and with the unpopular habit of constantly assuming leadership. He was probably the youngest present. "Yes," replied my father. "And now we must follow some system. Perhaps we'd better cast lots to see who is to be our _ataman_, the leader of our band." Old Skorin shook his head. "What's the use of that?" he said. "You know the country, and you'll suit us."