It was on a Sunday afternoon.  The quiet of the holiday was noticeable even on the mountains where, hand in hand, the little comrades walked.  They were nicely washed and arrayed in Sunday clothing, because Bacha Filina would not suffer anybody to desecrate Sunday.  Everyone who could, had to go to the next town to church, though it was almost two hours’ walk.  He himself seldom went; he was not able to take long walks.  Once a timber fell on his foot in the woods and from that time on he had pains in it, but since he did not go down to church, he read in his large old Bible.  Today he had gone to church and the boys went to meet him.  They missed him very much.  He ordered them to memorize the reading of the Gospel for the day and each had to recite separately.

Suddenly Petrik became silent; he drew his comrade aside and pointed with a silent nod of the head toward a cut-down tree lying in the woods.  There sat Bacha Filina with his head resting in the palms of his hands as if something were pressing him down to the black ground.

“Let us go up to the Bacha,” advised Petrik; “he seems to be sad.”

“Truly very sad,” worried Ondrejko.  “Perhaps the sadness will pass from him when we come to him.”

The crackling of dry branches under the bare feet of the boys roused Bacha.  He looked around.  The children stood a short distance off.  Should they go to him—­or not?

“Where are you going?” he called to them.  They came running.  “Only to meet you, Bacha.”

“Well, why did you come to meet me?” His usually rough voice seemed to sound different.  “We were lonesome without you,” haltingly admitted Ondrejko, and presently they sat on the moss carpet at the feet of Bacha.

“And why, Bacha, were you sitting here so sadly?” Petrik looked surprisedly at Ondrejko, that he dared to ask.  Would not Bacha be angry?

“Did you think that I was sad?” Bacha stroked the golden hair surrounding the pale face of the child, which in the sunshine looked like a halo on a saint.

“And were you not?” The blue eyes of the boy, like two lovely blue flowers, gazed into the black eagle-like eyes of the man.

“Well, child, I was sad, and you have done well that you came to meet me.  While I rest a while, recite to me the Gospel that you have learned.”

Both boys, one after the other, recited the parable of the rich man and Lazarus.

“May I ask you, Bacha, to tell me why the rich man did not help Lazarus?” Petrik dared to ask.

“Why?  Because his heart was like a stone.  The dogs were better than he.  Remember that, children, and never do any harm to birds or animals; they are better than we.  Now let us go.”

Bacha took Ondrejko by the hand and giving his book to Petrik they walked through the woods toward home.  High above them in the clearing sounded the bells of the flock, and off and on the impatient barking of Whitie and Playwell, and in between sounded the trumpet of the youngest herdsman, Stephen.  He played with such an ardor that it seemed the notes were running over;