I remembered Juna's words about the breaking up of the Russian people, and my thoughts followed Mikhail's words lightly and pleasantly. But I could not understand why he spoke low and without anger, as if this whole oppressive life was a thing of the past for him. The earth breathed warm and friendly, with the intoxicating perfumes of the sap and the flowers. The birds pierced the air with their twitter, the children played about and conquered the stillness of the wood, and it became more and more clear to me that before this day I had not understood their strength, nor had I ever seen their beauty. It was good to see Mikhail among them, with his calm smile on his face. I said, smiling: "I am going to leave you for a little. I have to think." He looked at me. His eyes beamed, his eyelashes fluttered, and my heart answered him, trembling. I had seen little of friendship, but I knew how to value it. "You are a good man," I said to him. He became embarrassed, lowered his eyes, and I also was confused. We stood opposite each other, silent; then separated. He called out after me: "Don't go too far. You will lose your way." "Thank you." I turned into the wood, chose a place and sat down. From the distance came the voices of the children. The thick, green wood resounded with their laughter and it sighed. The squirrels squeaked over my head, the finches sang. I wanted to explain all to my soul; all which I knew and which I had heard these days, but everything melted within me into a rainbow, and it enfolded me and carried me on as it floated quietly along, filling my soul. It grew infinitely large, and I lost myself in it, forgetting myself in a light cloud of speechless thought. At night I reached home and said to Mikhail that I would like to live with them some time, until I learned their faith. For this reason I wished Uncle Peter to find some work for me in the factory. "Don't hurry so," he said. "You ought to rest and read some books." "Give me your books," I said, for I trusted them. "Take them." "I have never read worldly books," I said. "Give me what you think I need; for instance, a Russian history." "It is necessary to know everything," he answered, and looked at the books affectionately, as at the children. Then I buried myself in study, reading all day long. It was difficult for me, and painful. The books did not argue with me. They simply did not wish to know me. One book especially tortured me. It spoke about the development of the world and of human life. It was written against the Bible. Everything was stated simply, clearly and positively. I could find no loophole in this simplicity, and it seemed to me that a whole row of strange powers were around me and that I w as among them like a mouse in a trap. I read it twice, read it in silence, wishing to find some flaw in it through which I could escape to liberty. But I found none. I asked my teacher: "How is it? Where is the man?"