“Sharik, be quiet!” the other called to the dog. And from the voice one could tell that the second was an old man. Lipa stopped and said: “God help you.” The old man went up to her and answered not immediately: “Good-evening!” “Your dog does not bite, grandfather?” “No, come along, he won’t touch you.” “I have been at the hospital,” said Lipa after a pause. “My little son died there. Here I am carrying him home.” It must have been unpleasant for the old man to hear this, for he moved away and said hurriedly: “Never mind, my dear. It’s God’s will. You are very slow, lad,” he added, addressing his companion; “look alive!” “Your yoke’s nowhere,” said the young man; “it is not to be seen.” “You are a regular Vavila.” The old man picked up an ember, blew on it--only his eyes and nose were lighted up--then, when they had found the yoke, he went with the light to Lipa and looked at her, and his look expressed compassion and tenderness. “You are a mother,” he said; “every mother grieves for her child.” And he sighed and shook his head as he said it. Vavila threw something on the fire, stamped on it--and at once it was very dark; the vision vanished, and as before there were only the fields, the sky with the stars, and the noise of the birds hindering each other from sleep. And the landrail called, it seemed, in the very place where the fire had been. But a minute passed, and again she could see the two carts and the old man and lanky Vavila. The carts creaked as they went out on the road. “Are you holy men?” Lipa asked the old man. “No. We are from Firsanovo.” “You looked at me just now and my heart was softened. And the young man is so gentle. I thought you must be holy men.” “Are you going far?” “To Ukleevo.” “Get in, we will give you a lift as far as Kuzmenki, then you go straight on and we turn off to the left.” Vavila got into the cart with the barrel and the old man and Lipa got into the other. They moved at a walking pace, Vavila in front. “My baby was in torment all day,” said Lipa. “He looked at me with his little eyes and said nothing; he wanted to speak and could not. Holy Father, Queen of Heaven! In my grief I kept falling down on the floor. I stood up and fell down by the bedside. And tell me, grandfather, why a little thing should be tormented before his death? When a grown-up person, a man or woman, are in torment their sins are forgiven, but why a little thing, when he has no sins? Why?” “Who can tell?” answered the old man. They drove on for half an hour in silence. “We can’t know everything, how and wherefore,” said the old man. “It is ordained for the bird to have not four wings but two because it is able to fly with two; and so it is ordained for man not to know everything but only a half or a quarter. As much as he needs to know so as to live, so much he knows.” “It is better for me to go on foot, grandfather. Now my heart is all of a tremble.” “Never mind, sit still.”