How often had her mother, whom her Grandfather had buried in the forest, told her that the souls of unbaptized children roamed about by night. When such a child dies, the Lord does not take it to Himself. "You do not belong to Me," He says. Woe betide the unlucky person who meets one of "them." It weeps and sobs pitiably, but if one takes it up, it seizes one's throat with its teeth. Anjuta sprang up and went quickly on. Again the enchanted silence surrounded her, again the lofty motionless trees looked at her as though they were astonished at the little intruder who disturbed their icy winter sleep. Anjuta became hungry and gnawed at a dry crust of bread as she went along; at the same time she was so absorbed in her thoughts that she stumbled. She looked around; there before her spread a white plain with the chimneys of the poverty-stricken little village in the background. Behind her rose the dark stiff wall of the wood. The main road ran close up to it and then, as though in sudden alarm, turned sharply to one side. Anjuta felt that for nothing in the world would she go back alone. The wood from which she had happily emerged inspired her afterwards with such fear, that she began to run, and sped over the snowy plain like an arrow. A strange sight brought her to a standstill. Four riders with long lances in their hands and guns slung across their backs rode by the side of a sledge, in which sat a stout man. He looked very grand, with his high turned-up fur collar and a cap with a red band round it. She had only once seen such a fine gentleman before, when she was begging with her mother in the town. The joyful consciousness of having the wood happily behind her so braced her up, that she felt no embarrassment before the stranger. "Listen, child!" the stout gentleman said to her. "Where have you come from?" "From the wood, Uncle." "How is that possible? Do people live there?" "Only Grandfather and I." "Do you belong to the village?" "No. Grandfather has come from far away, and he found me in the wood, when my mother had died." "Wait, wait," exclaimed the man in the sledge, who seemed struck with a new idea. "They said there," he pointed to the village, "that he had not been seen in this neighbourhood. Of course, you don't know your grandfather's name; how should you?" "Yes, I know it quite well," she laughed. "It is Ivan." "Ah, but he did not tell you what other name he had. That ought to have occurred to him." "Yes, but he did," said the child merrily. "And I remember it well." "You are joking." "He is called Ivan the Runaway. That's it. And my name is Anjuta." "That's just the man we want," laughed the official with great satisfaction. "Look out, you rascals"--he made a threatening gesture towards the village--"you shelter escaped convicts. Where is your grandfather?" "He is in bed." "What? Out there in the wood?" "Yes; he is ill since the bear attacked him. He can hardly crawl round our hut."