Ilya lay on his back, and looked up into the blue sky, whose limits he could not determine. Melancholy and sleepiness fell on him, vague, confused pictures drifted before his soul. It seemed to him as if far above in the sky, there hovered a mighty being, transparently clear, gentle and comforting, at once good and powerful, and that he, the little boy, might raise himself, with the old grandfather Jeremy and the whole earth, up into the boundless space, the blue ocean of light and shining purity, and his heart was full of peaceful, quiet joy. In the evening, when they returned home, Ilya trod the courtyard with the important self-assured gait of a man who has completed a good day's work. In the well-earned desire for rest, he retained not the least pleasure in such foolish things as other little boys and girls delight in. By his serious demeanour and the sack on his back, stuffed full of rare and fascinating things, he inspired a decided respect in all the children. The grandfather smiled in a friendly way at the youngsters and chaffed them: "Here children, see! the Lazaruses have come home again. They have hunted through the whole town and shoved their noses in everywhere. Run along Ilya, wash your face and come into the bar for tea." Ilya went to his corner in the cellar with important strides, and a crowd of children followed him, keenly curious as to the contents of the sack. Only Pashka stood in his path and asked him pertly: "Hullo! Rag-picker! Show us what you've brought." "You'll have to wait," answered Ilya with decision. "Let me have my tea, then I'll show you." In the bar, uncle Terenti met him with a friendly smile. "Ha! Ha! little workman, back again? Tramped yourself tired, eh, young'un?" Ilya liked to be called a little workman, and he received the title from others besides his uncle. Once when Pashka had played some pranks, his father Savel took his head between his knees and thrashed him soundly. "I'll teach you, you rascal! You'll play your tricks again, will you? Take that then--and that--and one more! Other children no older than you earn their own bread, and you can do nothing--nothing but stuff yourself and tear your clothes!" Pashka screamed till the whole house rang, and kicked hard while the rope's end whistled about his back. At first Ilya heard his enemy's cries of pain with a certain sense of satisfaction, and at the same time the words of the smith, which he took to himself, filled him with a consciousness of his superiority to Pashka. Then the thought roused compassion in him for the victim. "Uncle Savel, please stop!" he called out suddenly. "Uncle Savel!" The smith gave his son one cut more, then looked at Ilya and said crossly: "Shut up! You! Speak up for him, will you? Look out for yourself!"