Egorka had a splendid time with the quiet children. He did not notice how a whole week had passed by--from Friday to Friday. And suddenly he began to long for his mother. He heard her calling him at night, and as he woke in agitation he called: “Mamma, where are you?” There was stillness and silence all around him--it was an altogether unknown world. Egorka began to cry. The quiet children came to comfort him. They said to him: “There’s nothing to cry about. You will return to your mother. And she will be glad, and she will caress you.” “She may whip me,” said Egorka, sobbing. The quiet children smiled and said: “Fathers and mothers whip their children.” “They like to do it.” “It seems wicked to beat any one.” “But they really mean well.” “They beat whom they love.” “People mix everything up shame, love, pain.” “Don’t you be afraid, Egorushka--she’s a mother.” “Very well, I’ll not be afraid,” said Egorka, comforted. When Egorka took leave of the quiet children Grisha said to him: “You had better not tell your mother where you have passed all this time.” “No, I won’t tell,” replied Egorka vigorously, “not for anything.” “You’ll blab it out,” said one of the girls. She had dark, infinitely deep eyes; her thin, bare arms were always folded obstinately across her breast. She spoke even less than the other quiet children, and of all human words she liked “no” most. “No, I shan’t blab anything,” asserted Egorka. “I shan’t even tell any one where I have been; I shall put all these words under lock and key.” That same evening when Egorka left with Grisha, his mother suddenly missed him. She shouted a long time and cursed and threatened; but as there was no response she became frightened. “Perhaps he’s been drowned,” she thought. She ran among her neighbours, wailing and lamenting. “My boy’s gone. I can’t find him anywhere. I simply don’t know where else to look. He’s either drowned in the river or fallen into a well--that’s what comes of mischief-making.” One neighbour suggested: “It’s most likely the Jews have caught him and are keeping him in some out-of-the-way spot, and only waiting to let his Christian blood and then drink it.” This guess pleased them. They said with great assurance: “It’s Jews’ work.” “They are again at it, that accursed breed.” “There’s no getting rid of them.” “What a wretched affair!” They all believed this. The disturbing rumour that the Jews had stolen a Christian boy spread about town. Ostrov took a most zealous share in disseminating the rumour. The markets were filled with noisy discussions. The tradesmen and dealers, instigated by Ostrov, bellowed loudly their denunciations. Why did Ostrov do this? He knew, of course, that it was a lie. But latterly, acting on the instructions of the local branch of the Black Hundred, he had been engaged in provocatory work. The new episode came in handily.