"Well, God has taken your mother to Himself. Perhaps He wanted her."
"There was also the grey horse," said the child. "God took him too. When will He take me?"
The old man looked long at the child, and something like pity stirred him.
"For you it is still too early," he said gloomily.
"But what shall I do without mother?" She again held his finger with her little hand.
"Don't be afraid. I will stay with you. No one will touch you; I have a gun."
The old man picked up two slender sticks and tied them together with a strip of birch-bark, so as to make a rude cross. "Now your mother's grave is finished. Make a prayer, Anjuta; then we will go."
"I don't know how to pray; mother never taught me. I can only say, 'Give me a piece of bread for Jesus' sake.'"
"Have you never been in church?"
"No; mother and I—we always stood before the church door when people came out and cried, 'Good people, give us bread for Jesus' sake; we have eaten nothing for two days.'"