He arose immediately and worked on in silence.

Blood was trickling from his bruised face on to the white bark of the birch wood; he wiped the blood off his face with the sleeve of his shirt, looked at his sleeve and, heaving a sigh, maintained silence, and when he went past Foma with the hand-harrows, two big, turbid tears were trembling on his face, near the bridge of his nose, and Foma noticed them.
At dinner Foma was pensive and now and then glanced at his father with fear in his eyes.
"Why do you frown ?" asked his father, gently.
"Frown ?" "Are you ill, perhaps?
Be careful.

If there is anything, tell me." "You are strong," said Foma of a sudden musingly.
"I?
That's right.

God has favoured me with strength." "How hard you struck him!" exclaimed the boy in a low voice, lowering his head.
Ignat was about to put a piece of bread with caviar into his mouth, but his hand stopped, held back by his son's exclamation; he looked interrogatively at Foma's drooping head and asked: "You mean Yefim, don't you ?" "Yes, he was bleeding.

And how he walked afterward, how he cried," said the boy in a low voice.
"Mm," roared Ignat, chewing a bite.