The police began an investigation. They looked for the boy, but without success. In any case, they found a Jew who had been seen by some one near Egorka’s house. He was arrested. It was evening again. Egorka’s mother was at home when Egorka returned. There was a radiant sadness about him as he walked up to his mother, kissed her and said: “Hello, mamma!” Egorka’s mother assailed him with questions: “Oh, you little wretch! Where have you been? What have you been doing? What unclean demons have carried you away?” Egorka remembered his promise. He stood before his mother in obstinate silence. His mother questioned him angrily: “Where have you been? tell me! Did the Jews try to crucify you?” “What Jews?” exclaimed Egorka. “No one has tried to crucify me.” “You just wait, you young brat,” shouted his mother in a rage, “I’ll make you talk.” She caught hold of the besom and began to tear off its twigs. Then she stripped the boy of his light clothes. Still wrapt in his radiant sadness, Egorka looked at his mother with astonished eyes. He cried plaintively: “Mamma, what are you doing?” But, already seized by the rough hand, the little body that had been washed by the still waters began to struggle on the knees of the harshly crying woman. It was painful, and Egorka sobbed in a shrill voice. His mother beat him long and painfully, and she accompanied each blow with an admonition: “Tell me where you’ve been! Tell me! I won’t stop until you tell me.” At last she stopped and burst out into violent crying: “Why has God punished me so? But no, I’ll yet beat a word out of you. I’ll give it to you worse to-morrow.” Egorka was shaken less by the physical pain than by the unexpected harshness of his reception. He had been in touch with another world, and the quiet children in the enchanted valley had reconstructed his soul on another plane. His mother, however, loved him. Of course, she loved him. That was why she beat him in her anger. Love and cruelty go always together among humankind. They like to torment, vengeance gives them pleasure. But later Egorka’s mother took pity on him; she thought she had flogged him too hard. And now she walked up quietly to him. Egorka lay on the bench and moaned softly, then he grew silent. His mother smoothed his back awkwardly with her rough hands and left him. She thought he had gone to sleep. In the morning she went to wake him. She found him lying cold and motionless on the bench, his face downward. And his radiance was gone from him--he lay there a dark, cold corpse. The horrified mother began to wail: “He’s dead! Egorushka, are you really dead? Oh, God--and his little hands are quite cold!” She dashed out to her neighbours, she aroused the whole neighbourhood with her shrill cries. Inquisitive women soon filled the house.