There was only one person who ventured to take liberties with the patriarch--to tease him, coax him, sometimes even jest with him, always to claim his caresses as a matter of right, not, like the others, as a rare, occasional favour. This was little Feodor, a bright, black-eyed boy about three years younger than Ivan. The mother of this favourite grandson had been the only daughter of Petrovitch, and she was dead. Much of the old man’s heart was in the grave with her, nor could his seven brave and prosperous sons wholly supply her place. Ivan’s first days in Moscow were spent in viewing its wonders, under the guidance of one or other of the Petrovitch family. Feodor was often with him, and soon became his particular friend; for his playfellows at Nicolofsky having been dull and slow, the overflowing merriment of his new acquaintance was a welcome change. He was shown the marvels of the Kremlin,--its palace, its three cathedrals, its bell-tower of Ivan Veliki, to the top of which he ascended and beheld the panorama of the city stretched out beneath him like a picture. He saw also the great Cathedral of St. Basil, in the “Beautiful” Place outside the Kremlin wall. He saw the Chinese city and the dwellings of the Tartars; he wandered through the streets and rows of the Grand Bazaar. In fact, he saw so many wonderful things that his power of wondering was exhausted, and he soon ceased to be much impressed by any of them. Each time that he returned from one of these expeditions, old Petrovitch would call him to his side, and make him sit where he could see his face. One evening he said to him, “God make thee as brave and true as thine ancestor, the great Prince Pojarsky, who delivered Moscow from the Poles.” “Who was he? I have never heard of him,” said Ivan. “Is that possible? Poor child! did no one ever tell thee that story, so glorious for thee and thine? Know, then, that about two hundred years ago the Poles conquered holy Russia. The whole country was at their feet, in great misery and trouble, and no man dared resist them. Prince Pojarsky lay on his bed in his own castle, sick as it seemed unto death. But God put it into the heart of a poor man working at his trade in Moscow, a butcher named Minim, to save his country. He first went to all the great people of the city and of the surrounding country, and got them to promise men and money. Then he went to Prince Pojarsky, and stood before him like a messenger from God. ‘Rise,’ he said; ‘go forth and conquer the Poles. God will strengthen thee.’ ‘But soldiers are needed, and arms,’ said the prince. ‘All are ready,’ answered the courageous citizen. The prince arose from his bed of sickness, and, trusting in God, put himself at the head of the men of Moscow. He gained a glorious victory, and the sword of the Poles was broken for ever in Muscovy. That is the man whose name you bear, and whose blood is flowing in your veins, Prince Ivan Pojarsky!”