A strange feeling of astonishment stirred within him, why did he speak of this? Or was it due to the urgency of the questioner’s desire? Quietly, ever so quietly, half questioning, half relating, Kirsha persisted: “The dead will walk on the Navii[15] footpath, the dead will speak Navii words.” And again, as though submitting to a strange will, not his own, Trirodov replied: “The dead have already risen, they are already walking upon the Navii footpath, towards the Navii town, they are already speaking Navii words about Navii affairs.” And Kirsha asked: “Are you going?” “I am going,” said Trirodov after a brief silence. “I am going with you,” said Kirsha resolutely. “You had better not go, dear Kirsha,” said his father tenderly. But Kirsha persistently repeated: “I will spend this night with you there, at the Navii footpath. I will see and I will hear. I will look into dead eyes.” Trirodov said sternly: “I do not wish to take you with me--you ought to remain here.” There was entreaty in Kirsha’s voice: “Perhaps mother will come by.” Trirodov, falling into deep thought, said finally: “Very well, come with me.” The evening dragged on slowly and sadly. The father and son waited. It grew quite dark by the time they went. They walked through the garden, past the closed greenhouse with its mysteriously glittering window-panes. The quiet children were not yet asleep. Quietly they swung in the garden upon their swings. Quietly clinked the swing rings, quietly creaked the wooden seats. Upon the swings sat the quiet children, lit up by the dead moon and cooled by the night breeze, and they swung softly and sang their songs. The night listened to their quiet songs, and the full, clear, dead moon also. Kirsha, lowering his voice so that the quiet children might not hear, asked: “Why don’t they sleep? They swing on their swings neither upward nor downward, but evenly. Why do they do this?” “They must not sleep to-night,” answered Trirodov, also in a whisper. “They cannot sleep until the dawn grows rosy, until the dawn begins to laugh. There is really no reason why they should sleep. They can sleep as well by day.” Again Kirsha asked: “Will they go with us? They want to go.” “No, Kirsha, they don’t want anything.” “Don’t want anything?” repeated Kirsha sadly. “They ought not to go with us unless we call them.” “Shall we call them?” asked Kirsha joyously. “We shall call one. Which one would you like?” Kirsha, after some thought, said: “Grisha.” “Very well, we’ll call Grisha,” said Trirodov. He turned in the direction of the swings, and called out: “Grisha!” A boy, who resembled the sad-faced Nadezhda, quietly jumped down from his swing, and walked behind them, without approaching too closely. The other quiet children looked tranquilly after him, and continued to swing and to sing as before.