made for himself.

He was startled by a heavy footfall, and, turning, grew pale, for he that approached him was a spiteful, wicked old man, Waleri Kostarenko by name, one of the worst of those who delighted in bullying him. "You are but a cur!" he would call out when the lad passed his farm, and more than once he had set his dogs at him. And one day, finding him at play with his own grandchildren, he beat him so mercilessly that the little fellow could scarcely limp home for bruises. Nor was it any regard for morality he could plead in wretched excuse. Taras's mother had been a servant on his farm, and had been proof against his wiles, so he was the first to cry shame when trouble overtook her, and like a fiend he delighted in ill-using her child. Taras got out of his way whenever he could, and on the present occasion took to his sturdy little legs, as though pursued by the caitiff's dogs. It was not merely the loneliness of the place which made it advisable to seek refuge in flight, but the fact that the old man, as the boy had seen in spite of his terror, was in a worse condition than usual. There had been a merry-making the day before in a neighbouring village, and his unsteady feet showed plainly that the power of drink was upon him.

"Is it you, little toad?" he roared, "I'll catch you!" But the boy was too fleet for him, and he knew pursuit was vain. "Lord's sake," he cried, suddenly, "I have sprained my foot! Taras, for pity's sake, help me to yon stone!"

The boy turned and looked; the old man had sunk to his knee, a picture of suffering, and the boy did pity him, coming back accordingly. "What is it?" he said, "what can I do for you?" At which Waleri, bursting upon him, caught him exultingly. "Have I got you?" he shrieked, clutching his hair and treating him mercilessly.

"For heaven's sake," cried Taras, "spare me!" But pity there was none with the old wretch; beside himself with hatred, he held the boy with one arm, ill-using him with the other wherever his fist could fall. Taras struggled vainly for awhile, but with a wrench of despair he got free at last. He escaped. Waleri ran after him for a step or two. The geese were wild with terror, and one of the creatures had got between the man's feet; he fell heavily, knocking his head against the stone by the cross. The boy heard a piercing cry; he saw that his enemy was on the ground, but not till he had reached the further end of the common did he turn once more to look back. The old man lay motionless by the stone, the geese pressed about him, stretching their necks with a noisy cackle. He felt tolerably safe now from his enemy, for even if it were but another trick of his meanness he could scarcely overtake him at that distance; but as he stood and gazed a wild fear fell upon the boy, his heart beating violently.

"He is dead!" The thought flashed through him as a shock of lightning, and he felt dragged back to the scene helplessly. He retraced his steps towards the cross, and stood still within ten yards or so. A cry burst from him of pure horror--he saw the blood trickling over the upturned face. He pressed together his lips, and went close--slowly, tremblingly--quite close. The man was evidently unconscious, his face corpse-like and fearful to look at; there was a deep cut on the forehead, and the purple blood flowed copiously over the distorted face, trickling to the ground.

The boy stood still with labouring breath, as though spellbound. Horror and disgust, joy, scorn, revenge, and yet again compassion, went through him, the good rising uppermost in the great conflict that shook his soul. He thought of his mother, and bending down to the water he bathed the forehead of the unconscious man. The blood kept flowing. He tore off the sleeve of his shirt, and, making a bandage, pressed it upon the wound. Walen groaned, but did not open his eyes. "He is dying!" thought Taras, but strove as best he could to stop the bleeding, crying for help at the same time with all his might.

A young peasant, the son-in-law of the village judge, riding by at some distance, heard his calling--the wind lengthening out the sound. He came dashing up, and what he saw might well fill him with surprise. "And you, Taras--you trying to save him!" he cried, when the boy had told his story simply and truthfully. It was more than he could understand. But he turned to the sufferer, sending Taras to the village for assistance. The boy returned with the judge himself, together with Waleri's son and some of his servants.

They took up the wounded man and carried him to his home, the judge looking at the boy repeatedly with unfeigned wonder. "Taras," he said at last, "I think if He whom they call the Christ were alive, He would just be proud of you, I do indeed! That is to say, we are told He is alive, and I daresay He will repay you for this!" At which the boy blushed crimson, remembering what a struggle it had cost him; he did not deserve any praise, he thought.

But from this hour the people thought well of him in the village; all were anxious to show their approval, and those that had spoken kindly of him before were quite proud of their discriminating wisdom. Waleri recovered, continuing to hate him; but this utter ingratitude made others the more anxious to befriend him. The judge especially, henceforth, stood by the lad, giving him a place as under-servant on his own farm; and, he being looked upon as the chief authority of the village, his example told naturally. But of far more consequence than these things was the influence of that occurrence upon the inner growth of the boy. So far, he had simply believed his mother, that one must deserve kindness by being good; now he knew it by his own experience. "Yes," he said to himself, "justice is the foundation of things;" and more than ever he tried to fulfil his every duty to the utmost. But the golden opinions he gathered were his gain in a double sense; for there is no greater help toward well-doing than the knowledge that one is believed in, and all the clearer grew that fair creed within him which his mother had taught him concerning the world and its retribution. What at first had been only a sort of childish self-interest, grew to be the very backbone of his character: he could not but try and be good, just, and helpful. It could be said of him, without a shade of flattery, that no servant-lad ever had been so well behaved as he; and when his mother died, the fifteen-year-old youth had as many comforters and friends as there were people in the village. The stain on his birth even grew to be cause of praise. "Why, look you," the judge would say, "this boy is really no proper child at all; anyhow he is quite unfathered, and could be as rascally as he pleased, for there's none to cast it up to him. I might give him a box on the ear at times, but that could not make up for a father's thrashing. And, in the face of all this, this Taras is just the best boy in the village. He will be a great man one of these days, I tell you! My prophecies always come true--you will find out what stuff he is made of before you have done with him, and then please remember I said so."

And the time came when the young man gave evidence of the stuff within him, but that which brought it out was a sore trial to the brave-hearted youth. He was barely eighteen, and had come to be a ploughman on the judge's farm, when one day the Imperial constables brought an old soldier into the village, Hritzko Stankiewicz by name, a wretched creature with a worn-out body and a rotten soul. Begging and stealing, he had found his way from Italy to Galicia, where the police had picked him up, and now he was being delivered over to his own parish of Ridowa. It wad Taras's father. The judge, in well-meant pity, was for concealing this from the young man, but the latter had heard the name often enough from his mother, and he went at once to the gaol where the vagabond had been