They came to two tall, straight trees. A bronze rod was suspended between them, and upon the rod, on rings, hung a dark red silk curtain. The light breeze caused the thin draperies to flutter. The quiet, blue-eyed Grisha drew the curtain aside. The red folds came together with a sharp rustle and with a sudden flare as of a flame. The opening revealed a wooded vista, all permeated with a strangely bright light, like a vision of a transfigured land. Grisha said: “Go, Egorushka--it is good there.” Egorka looked into the clear wooded distance: fear beset his heart, and he said quietly: “I am afraid.” “What are you afraid of, silly boy?” asked Grisha affectionately. “I don’t know. Something makes me afraid,” said Egorka timidly. Grisha felt aggrieved. He sighed quietly and then said: “Well, go home, then, if you are afraid here.” Egorka recalled his home, his mother, the town he lived in. He did not have a very happy time of it at home--they lived poorly, and he was whipped often. Egorka suddenly threw himself at the quiet Grisha, caught him by his gentle, cool hands, and cried: “Don’t chase me away, dear Grisha, don’t chase me from you.” “Am I chasing you away?” retorted Grisha. “You yourself don’t want to come.” Egorka got down on his knees and whispered as he kissed Grisha’s feet: “I pray to you angels with all my strength.” “Then follow me,” said Grisha. Light hands descended on Egorka’s shoulders and lifted him from the grass. Egorka followed Grisha obediently to the blue paradise of his quiet eyes. A peaceful valley opened before him and the quiet children played in it. The dew fell on Egorka’s feet, and its kisses gave him joy. The quiet children surrounded Egorka and Grisha and, all joining hands in one broad ring, carried the two boys with them in a swiftly moving dance. “My dear angels,” shouted Egorka, twirling and rejoicing, “you have bright little faces, you have clean little eyes, you have white little hands, you have light little feet! Am I on earth or am I in Paradise? My dear ones, my little brothers and little sisters, where are your little wings?” Some one’s near, sweet-sounding voice answered him: “You are upon the earth, not in Paradise, and we have no need of wings--we fly wingless.” They captivated, bewitched, and caressed him. They showed him all the wonders of the wood under the tree-stumps, the bushes, the dry leaves--little wood-sprites with rustling little voices, with spider-webby hair, straight ones and hunchbacked ones; little old men of the wood; the shadow-sprites and little companion spirits; bantering little sprites in green coats, midnight ones and daylight ones, grey ones and black ones; little jokers-pokers with shaggy little paws; fabulous birds and animals--everything that is not to be seen in the gloomy, everyday, earthly world.