passed, and she unconsciously yielded to its influence. She gradually grew quieter, and rising to her feet began to smooth back her tumbled hair. She had never been accustomed to look for sympathy in her sorrows, and so now she said nothing. She sat down on a chair. Her face seemed to have grown suddenly hard and thin, and she looked with sullen hatred at the scolding

woman.

The latter, out of breath and flushed with victory, nodded triumphantly at the group of servants. She stood for a moment her arms akimbo, watching Annushka in silence.

"She'll be quiet enough now," she said after a moment.

She turned and went out of the room, and the others followed her. They remained for some minutes whispering in the corridor, and then they moved away and there was silence.

Annushka got up and went into the "barchuk's" bedroom. She sent the nursery-girl away and lay down on her bed without undressing. For hours she lay staring into the darkness. Her face kept wrinkling up with the desire to cry, but she sniffed her tears away and bit the sheet to choke her sobs. At one in the morning the "barchuk" awoke and began to seek his food. Annushka's tears fell fast as she sat down with him upon the low chair, and laid him against her breast.

"It's you that are drinking his life away," she said to the "barchuk," and for the first time in his life she laid him back in the cradle again without issing him.

At five o'clock Annushka suddenly umped from her bed, and lit a candle. she hastily combed her hair and plaited t again, and then she put on her boots. She took her cloak out of the wardrobe, ad then she lifted the "barchuk" onee aore from his cradle.

"Now, drink your fill," she said to im.

When the "barchuk" was asleep in his cradle again. Annushka tied her shawl over her head, and put her cloak on. She crept noiselessly out of the room and down the corridor. She could hear the loud snoring of the menservants coming from the kitchen and the sound burst full upon her when she opened the door. She stole across the kitchen to the door leading on to the back stairs. She slipped the bolts back very carefully, and gently turned the key. Closing the door behind her she went down the stairs into the courtyard. The gatekeeper had gone off duty at four o'clock, and the courtyard was empty. She went through the gate out into the street. There was a sledge standing near the kerbstone, and the driver was asleep upon his box. She awakened him and told him to drive her to the Warsaw Station. There was no train to Klim, the town nearest to her village until seven. She sat down to wait in the furthest corner of the dirty bar in the third-class waiting-room. She pulled her shawl forward over her face and huddled up under her cloak to make herself as small as possible. There was scarcely anybody in the station except the browncoated, wooden-faced gendarmes who were already posted with their rifles at the various entrances to the platform, and pacing backwards and forwards in the big central hall.

It seemed an eternity to Annushka as she sat waiting, and every new footstep caused her heart to bound with fear. If they found her they would take her back again, for the "barchuk" could not be left to starve, and it would be extremely difficult to induce him to take strange food. The servants would not notice her absence until seven, when her morning gruel was brought in. And by seven she would be already in the train. If only the "barchuk" would sleep soundly until morning as was his custom, and not arouse

the

household by fruitless crying! It was a journey of three hours to Klim. The slowness of the train made Annushka desperate. She imagined she could feel the tiny body of Ivanushka already in her arms, and her heart began to beat with anxiety and intense impatience.

At last Klim was reached. The country stretching around was flat and covered with snow which looked gray and leaden under the sullen winter sky. Annushka set off to walk to Malinovka. It was about three miles distant. Soon she was overtaken by an old peasant in a sledge. He had been to the market with logs, and he was now returning to a village beyond Malinovka. He would pass Malinovka, and he willingly agreed to take her with him in the sledge. They jolted slowly along over the uneven snow. The horse was small and weak and there were traces of terrible wounds upon his back. The old peasant talked continually in his quavering voice, now arging the little horse forward with arguments and remonstrances as if it were a reasoning being, now turning to acquaint Annushka with the gossip of the countryside the priest at Semenovka had died of drink, the frost had not been so severe in these parts for ten years, the small-pox had broken out in Varnaki.

Annushka scarcely noticed what he said. Her back and ribs were sore with bumping against the wooden sledge. The tips of her fingers stung so painfully because of the frost that she was obliged to grind them one against another to keep up the circulation. Her nose was numb save for a painful prick in the end of it, and every now and then she leaned over and scooped up a handful of snow to rub it in and save it from being frostbitten. Her head was giddy with the thought that she was drawing nearer to Ivanushka, that shortly she would

see him and be able to touch him

At Malinovka Annushka got out of the sledge, and, thanking the old peasant, walked quickly up the village street. As she drew near the cottage she saw her sister-in-law, Marfa, stooping over something outside the cottage. She looked up suddenly and caught sight of Annushka. She sprang to her feet and stared aghast at her for a moment, and then without a sign of greeting she dived into the cottage. When Annushka reached the cottage it was empty. An open basket was ly ing upon the floor near the stove. ADnushka threw herself upon her knees beside it with a cry.

Ivanushka was lying in the basket. His face was gray in color with a tinge of blue around the eyes and mouth His lids were pale with spots of blue upon them. They were drawn down half over his eyes and the rims of white showed beneath. There was an air of unutterable distance about him. It seemed to his mother that he was in some way unreal, that however far she stretched her arms towards him she could never reach him.

With a clutch of desperate fear at her heart she put out a trembling hand and touched him. The contact of the little body was reassuring, and she lifted him from the basket and took him in her arms. She kissed the lit tle face and head all over, and eagerly whispered his name, "Ivanushka! Ivanushka!" She sat down with him upon a low wooden stool, covering him with the warm folds of her fur-lined cloak. She hastily unwound the grimy rags in which he was enveloped. With #1 beating heart she began to rub the tiny. stiff, cold limbs. She looked into his face and the feeling that he was infinitely far from her, that he was in some way unreal, overwhelmed her with terror again. She stood up and looked around her wildly with a desire to shriek for help. She tore open the

bosom of her shirt and thrust him against her naked breast. The touch of the stiff unyielding little body sent a rending shiver through her frame. It was like a slab of marble against the warmth of her flesh. She sank on to the stool again and rocked herself backwards and forwards. She began to moan in a low despairing voice. Suddenly she felt a spasmodic jerk in the tiny limbs against her breast, the head turned sideways and the icy cheek was pressed against her heart. Eagerly she snatched the cloak away and looked at Ivanushka again. But the little face was just as gray and still and terrifying.

Outside the window a little group of people had gathered. Her sisters-in-law who had fled at her coming had spread the news of it in the village. were afraid to enter and they tried to peep into the interior of the cottage.

They

The door opened and somebody came in. It was Ivan. He stood behind her silently and she did not look at him.

"You have let your child die. God will curse you," she said to him in a strange, passionless voice.

He did not answer, but he frowned suddenly. There was a look of sullen pain and fear in his eyes, and he tore and plucked convulsively at the sheepskin cap he held.

"The Mother of God will turn from you. Your father would have cursed you had he lived," said Annushka again.

"I walked seven versts to get milk for him when there was none in the village," Ivan said, huskily. "I've carried him all night when he was ailing."

He stood motionless, but his broad shoulders seemed to shrink suddenly together, and his head was bowed and sunk between them like that of a culprit pleading guilty and awaiting sentence.

"You let him freeze because you were too lazy to get wood."

LIVING AGE. VOL. XLVI. 2428

"You drank the money I sent for him. Did you think I meant it for your tipsy louts of brothers and their devilish wives?"

"What can one do but drink in such a life as this?" Ivan said hoarsely. He stood up straight and his eyes shone with anger. "What life do I have? No peace. No joy. It's like a madhouse here."

Annushka said nothing. She began to rock herself and moan and sob again. Ivan went to the window and stood looking out into the courtyard. The sound of Annushka's sobbing filled the room. He raised one hand and pressed it to his eyes. Then he dropped it again and clenched his fists. He strode back savagely to his wife and struck her a blow on her bowed head.

"Don't madden me, woman, with your whining," he shouted, and rushed out of the cottage, his face wild and distorted like that of one insane.

Her

The

There came the sound of a sledge bell which drew near and ceased. Voices began to speak eagerly outside the door. Annushka did not move. head was bowed nearly to her knees. She had scarcely felt the blow upon it. She clasped the little body of Ivanushka close against her heart. door opened again and a delicious fragrance floated into the cottage with the frosty air. Somebody knelt upon the floor beside her and put an arm around her, and there was a sweep of soft fur against her cheek. It did not seem at all strange to her that the barina should appear suddenly at her side. She was beginning to be exhausted by the intensity of her grief. A voice whispered in her ear,

"Let us see him, Annushka."

She raised her head and saw that there was a strange gentleman in the room. He had come in with the barina. She dragged her cloak around her, tightly. The light of mad fear leapt into her eyes.

"You shall never touch him," she said, hoarsely.

The barina still knelt by her side with a hand upon her shoulder, and she said:

"We have not come to take him from you. We do not wish to harm him. The barin is a doctor, and if anything can be done to save Ivanushka he will know what to do. Annushka! if he can be saved, the barin will save him."

The

With gentle persuasion she induced the mother to lay the little body across her knee for the doctor to examine it. The upturned eyes and little open mouth seemed to reproach them timidly; to ask why they, who should have sheltered him, had let him suffer. lady's tears began to fall. It seemed shameful to her that she should stand in his presence dressed in her rich clothes and furs. It was as if she had deliberately used her wealth and power to destroy this tiny creature who was so helpless and so poor.

"It is too late," the doctor said, and gently lifted the little body from the mother's knee. "He is dead."

Annushka leapt to her feet with a shriek at the word, and flung aside the barina's restraining hand. She began to scream hysterical curses upon those who had caused the baby's death. Her cries were heard outside the cottage, and the neighbors ran from all sides and joined the awestruck group near the window. She tore her hair and struck herself wildly on the breast in the abandonment of desperation. The barina stood pale and frightened. She had never seen anything so terrible. Annushka sank, gasping and exhausted upon the wooden bench, and laid her

head

upon the table. Her body heaved with strangling sobs.

When she at last grew quiet the barina leant over her and said to her gently:

"Come back with me, Annushka. You have nothing to do here now. We will take Ivanushka and go back together, and I will look after you all your life. I will send for your husband. Let me make what amends I can to you for losing the poor little baby."

The doctor went outside to commission the neighbors to make a little coffin for Ivanushka, and they set about it very willingly. They silently made way when Annushka came out of the cottage and took her seat in the sledge. She had pulled her shawl over her face. and she spoke to nobody, and did not look up. The rough-hewn little box which held Ivanushka's body placed in her lap. The neighbors crowded round to perform what little friendly services they might, and refused to take money for the little coffin.

was

And so Ivanushka travelled to St. Petersburg; and he was given a funeral such as no peasant baby had ever had before. The little rough box made by the peasants was exchanged for a sumptuous little white coffin which was dragged to the churchyard by four white horses in a hearse of pure white. Three mutes in new white robes and streamers walked on either side of the hearse, and the three priests who followed it in gold-colored vestments and with flowing hair might have been especially chosen for their air of sanetity and prosperity.

Perhaps this was a consolation to Annusbka. Nevertheless, the "barchuk's" digestion was upset for a long while because of the violence of her grief. She still lives in the barin's household, and perhaps she will live

there till she is an old woman, and be nurse to the "barchuk's" children. When inquiries were made after Ivan in the village it appeared that he had left it and had not returned, and so far he has not been heard of.

Annushka lives like a queen. Her slightest wish is gratified, and she is The English Review.

treated with the utmost consideration and tenderness by the barina. But she would cast her easy life to the winds, and go joyfully back to poverty and hardship if it could but be brightened for her by the smile of the little lost Ivanushka.

J. Saturin.

It must be regretfully allowed by the most enthusiastic of gardeners that there are too many days in our English winter when the garden is quite the last place in which they should choose to take their walks. At times when the snow, smutched with long lying, buries all the lower plants under vague mounds, and the taller sorts stand like skeletons with warped stems and frost-pinched leaves, or when the paths shine in pools of swampy thaw, almost every sort of walking-ground is better than that within the precincts. Out in the lanes and woods there may be quite tolerable going among the bracken, or the drifted leaves, or on turf still frozen on the shady side of the hedge; there, at least, if one hits upon a piece of deep ground, will footsteps leave no serious damage behind them. In the open country the underwood and hedge-growths stand undauntedly among the snow; the primrose tufts, the celandines, and foxgloves, half buried or thawed out, have an air of knowing their own business and taking unconcernedly all that comes. But within the cultivated ground, the impracticable paths and the visible discomfort of the civilized growths discourage strolling. We will wait until the gravel dries up a little, and the wallflowers hang less disconsolately limp and sodden, and the laurels hold up their nipped fingers again.

But such dismal hours as these for

In

tunately come but now and then. most modern winters we are offered quite as many chances of enjoying a garden as we are generally ready to take advantage of; and even when the conditions overhead and underfoot are by nature unfavorable, they may often be made something more than endurable by the following of some simple precautions in the matter of shelter and paving. Without some experiment upon varying aspects, and the effect of walks and wind screens, it is not easy to appreciate the differences of climate which may be obtained within the radius of half-a-minute's walk. We feel at times as we turn out of the sting of the east wind round a corner of the house and step into a sudden lull on the sheltered side that we have gone a thousand miles nearer to the sun; but we seldom take the thought needful for providing garden-walks with this artificial clemency on almost any day in the winter when the sun shines. Masonry, of course, makes the most effective bulwark; and where there are fairly high fruit walls with exposure to the west and south, a very little trouble should suffice to arrange a walk and even sitting-places which will be out of range of all the most unkindly blasts between north and south-east. Hedges and shrubberies make a useful screen if they stand thick and close; a snow-wind will drive through holly, and even through yew, unless it be