When he came back to his home he carried its price in his hands—thirty francs in three paper notes. He held them out to Lizina.
'All is well with it; it is to stand in a beautiful place, close to falling water, half in shade, half in sun, as it likes best. Oh, all is well with it, dear! do not be afraid.' Then his voice failed him, and he sobbed aloud.
The child took the money. She had a little bundle in her hand, and she had put on the only pair of shoes she possessed.
'Clean yourself, father, and come—come quickly,' she said in a little hard, dry, panting voice.
'Oh wait, wait, my angel!' he cried piteously through his sobs.
I cannot wait,' said the child, 'not a minute, not a minute. Clean yourself and come.'
In an hour's time they were in the train. The child did everything—found the railway-station, asked the way, paid their fares, took their seats, pushing her father hither and thither as if he were a blind man. He was dumb with terror and regret; he resisted nothing. Having sold the tree, there seemed to him nothing left for him to do. Lizina obeyed him no more—she commanded.
People turned to look after this little sick girl with death written on her face, who spoke and moved with such feverish decision, and dragged after her this thin dumb man, her small lean hand shut with nervous force upon his own. All the way she ate nothing; she only drank thirstily of water whenever the train stopped.
The novelty and strangeness of the transit, the crowd, and haste, and noise, the unfamiliar scenes, the pressure of unknown people, and the stare of unknown eyes—all which was so bewildering and terrible to her father, had no effect upon her. All she thought of was to get to the place of which the name was written on the scrap of paper which she had shown at the ticket-office, and which she continued to show mutely to anyone who spoke to her. It said everything to her; she thought it must say everything to everyone else.
Nothing could alarm her or arrest her attention. Her whole mind was set on her goal.