A STORY OF A RUSSIAN VILLAGE.

CHAPTER I.

On the one hill of the district, just outside the village of Viletna, stood the great house belonging to Madame Olsheffsky.

All round it lay, what had once in the days gone by, been elaborate gardens, but were now a mere tangle of brushwood, waving grass, and wild flowers.

Beyond this, again, were fields of rye and hemp, bounded on one side by the shining waters of the great Seloe Lake, dug by hundreds of slaves in the time of Madame Olsheffsky’s great-grandfather; and on the other by the dim greenness of a pine forest, which stretched away into the distance for mile after mile, until it seemed to melt into the misty line of the horizon.

Between the lake and the gardens of the great house, lay Viletna, with its rough log houses, sandy street, and great Church, crowned with a cupola like a gaily-painted melon; where Elena, Boris, and Daria, the three children of Madame Olsheffsky, drove every Sunday with their mother in the old-fashioned, tumble-down carriage.

All the week the children looked forward to this expedition, for with the exception of an occasional visit to Volodia Ivanovitch’s shop in the village, it was the only break in the quiet monotony of their lives.

They were allowed to go to Volodia’s, whenever they had money enough to buy anything; and often spent the afternoon there listening to his long tales, and examining the contents of the shop, which seemed to supply all that any reasonable person could wish for from a ball of twine to a wedding dress.

Volodia himself, had been a servant at the great house many years before, “when the place was kept up as a country gentleman’s should be” he was fond of explaining to the children “but when the poor dear master was taken off to Siberia he was as good as a saint, and no one knew what they found out against him then the Government took all his money, and your mother had to manage as well as she could with the little property left her by your grandfather. She ought to have owned all the country round, but your great-grandfather was an extravagant man, Boris Andreievitch! and he sold everything he could lay hands on!”

Elena and Boris always listened respectfully. They had the greatest opinion of “Uncle Volodia’s” wisdom, and they could just remember the time of grief and excitement when their father left them; but it had all happened so long ago that though their mother often spoke of him, and their old nurse Var-Vara was never tired of relating anecdotes of his childhood, they had gradually begun to think of him, not as a living person, but as one of the heroes of the old romances that still lingered on the shelves of the dilapidated library.

It was a happy life the children led in the great white house. It made no difference to them that the furniture was old and scanty, that the rooms were bare, and the plaster falling away in many places from the walls and ceilings.

Their mother was there, and all their old friends, and they wished for nothing further.

Was there not Toulu, the horse, in his stall in the ruined stable; Tulipán, the Pomeranian dog, Adam, the old butler, and Alexis, the “man of all work,” who rowed their boat on the lake, tidied the garden as well as the weeds and his own natural laziness would allow him and was regarded by Boris as the type of all manly perfection!

What could children want more? Especially as Volodia was always ready at a moment’s notice to tell them a story, carve them a peasant or a dog from a chip of pine-wood, dance a jig, or entertain them in a hundred other ways dear to the heart of Russian children.

CHAPTER II.

On one of the clear dry days of an early Russian autumn, when a brilliant glow of colour and sunshine floods the air, and the birch trees turned to golden glories shake their fluttering leaves like brilliant butterflies, Elena, Boris, and Daria, stood on one of the wide balconies of the great house, with their mother beside them, sorting seeds and tying them up in packets for the springtime.

Some large hydrangeas, and orange trees, in green tubs, made a background to the little scene.

The eager children with clumsy fingers, bent on being useful; the pale, thin mother leaning back in her garden chair smiling at their absorbed faces.

“Children, I have something I must tell you,” commenced Madame Olsheffsky, seriously, when the last seeds had been put away and labelled. “It is something that will make you sad, but you must try and bear it well for my sake, and for your poor father’s who I hope will return to us one day. I think you are old enough to know something about our affairs, Elena, for you are nearly thirteen. Even my little Boris is almost eleven. Don’t look so frightened, darling,” continued Madame Olsheffsky, taking little Daria in her arms, “it is nothing very dreadful. I am obliged to enter into a lawsuit a troublesome, difficult lawsuit. One of our distant cousins has just found some papers which he thinks will prove that he ought to have had this estate instead of your grandfather, and he is going to try and take it from us. I have sent a great box of our title deeds to the lawyer in Viletna, and he is to go through them immediately but who knows how it may turn out? Oh, children! you must help me bravely, if more ill-fortune is to fall upon us!”

Elena rushed towards her mother, and threw her arms round her neck. “We will! We will! Don’t trouble about it, dear little mother,” she cried. “What does it matter if we are all together. I will work and dig in the garden, and Boris can be taught to groom Toulu, and be useful he really can be very sensible if he likes. Then Var-Vara will cook, and Adam and Daria can do the dusting. Oh, we shall manage beautifully!”

Madame Olsheffsky smiled through some tears.

“You are a dear child, Elena! I won’t complain any more while I have all my children to help me. But run now Boris, and tell Alexis to get the boat ready. I must go to the other side of the lake, to see that poor child who broke his arm the other day.”

Boris ran off to the stables with alacrity. He found it difficult to realize all that his mother had just told them. “Of course it was very dreadful,” he thought, “but very likely it wouldn’t come true. Then, as Elena said, nothing mattered much if they were all together; and perhaps, if they were obliged to move into the village, they might live near Volodia’s shop; and the wicked cousin might let them come and play sometimes in the garden.”

“Alexis! Alexis!” he shouted into the hay loft, and a brown face with a shock of black hair, appeared at one of the windows.

“What is it, Boris Andreievitch?”

“Mamma wants the boat immediately,” replied Boris. “She is going over to see Marsha’s sick child.”

Alexis took a handful of sunflower seeds out of his pocket, and began to eat them meditatively, throwing the husks behind him.

“The mistress won’t go another day?” he enquired slowly.

Boris shook his head.

“The lake’s overflowing, and the dam is none too strong over there by Viletna,” continued Alexis; “it would be better for her to wait a little.”

“She says she must go to-day,” said Boris, “but I will tell her what you say.”

Madame Olsheffsky, however, refused to put off her visit; and Elena, Boris, and Daria, looking out from the balcony, saw the boat with the two figures in it start off from the little landing-place, and grow smaller and smaller, until it faded away into a dim speck in the distance.

CHAPTER III.

Late that afternoon the three children were playing with Tulipán in the garden, when they heard Volodia’s well-known voice shouting to them

“Elena! Boris Andreievitch!”

They fancied he seemed to be in a great hurry, and as they flew towards him, they noticed that he had no hat, and there was a look of terror on his face that froze Elena’s heart with the certainty of some unknown but terrible misfortune.

“The lake! the lake!” he panted; “where is the mistress?”

“Gone to see Marsha’s sick child,” said Elena, clinging to little Daria with one hand, and gazing at Volodia with eyes full of terror.

“Ah, then it is true. It was her I saw! The poor mistress! Aie! Aie! Don’t move, children! Don’t stir. Here is your only safety,” cried Volodia in piercing tones. “The river has flooded into the lake, and the dam may go any moment. The village will be overwhelmed. Nothing can save it! The water rises! rises! and any minute it may burst through! The Saints have mercy! All our things will be lost; but it is the will of God we cannot fight against it.” And Volodia crossed himself devoutly with Russian fatalism.

“But mamma! what will happen to her?” cried Elena passionately. “Can nothing be done?”

“To go towards the lake now would be certain death,” replied Volodia brokenly. “No, Elena Andreievna; we must trust in God. He alone can save her if she is on the water now! Pray Heaven she may not have started!”

As he spoke, a long procession of terrified peasants came winding up the road towards the great house. All the inhabitants of the village had fled from their threatened homes, and were taking refuge on the only hill in the neighbourhood.

Weeping, gesticulating and talking; the men, women, and children, rushed on in the greatest state of confusion.

Some carried a few possessions they had snatched up hastily as they left their houses, some helped the old bed-ridden people to hobble along on their sticks and crutches; others led the smaller children, or carried the gaily-painted chests containing the holiday clothes of the family; while the boys dragged along the rough unkempt horses, and the few cows and oxen they had been able to drive in from the fields close by.

All, as they came within speaking distance of Elena and Boris, began to describe their misfortunes; and such a babel of sound rose on the air that it was impossible to separate one word from another.

“Where shall they go to, Matoushka?" enquired Volodia anxiously, as the strange procession spread itself out amongst the low-growing birch trees.

Matoushka little mother.

Elena shook herself, as if awakening from a horrible dream.

“Oh, it is dreadful! dreadful! But you are welcome, poor people!” she cried. “Put the horses into the stables Adam will show you where and the dogs too; and come into the house all of you, if you can get in. The cows must go to the yard. Oh, Var-Vara!” she added, as she turned to her old nurse, who had just come out, attracted by the noise. “Have you heard? Oh, poor mamma! Do you think she will be safe?” and Elena rushed into the house, and up the stair of a wooden tower, from which she could see for miles round, a wide vista of field, lake, and forest.

No boat was in sight, and the lake looked comparatively peaceful; but just across the middle stretched an ominous streak of muddy, rushing water, that beat against the high grass-grown dam, separating the lake from the village, and threatened every moment to roll over it.

Elena held her breath, and listened. There was a dull roaring sound like distant thunder.

The streak of brown water surged higher and higher; and suddenly in one instant, as it seemed to the terrified child a vast volume of water shot over the dam, seeming to carry it away bodily with its violence; and with a crash like an earthquake, the pent-up lake burst out in one huge wave, that rolled towards the village of Viletna, tearing up everything it passed upon its way.

Elena turned, and, almost falling downstairs in her terror, ran headlong towards the group of peasants who had gathered on the grass before the wooden verandah, and in despairing silence were watching the destruction of their fields and houses.

Beside them stood the old Priest, his long white hair shining in the sunshine.

“My children, let us pray to the good God for any living things that are in danger!” he said.

The peasants fell upon their knees.

“Save them! Save them!” they cried, imploringly, “and save our cattle and houses!”

The blue sky stretched overhead, all round the garden the birch trees shed their quivering glory; the very flowers that the three children had picked for their mother, in the morning, lay on a table fresh and unfaded; yet it seemed to Elena that years must have passed by since she stood there, careless and happy.

“Oh, Boris, come with me!” she cried, passionately, “I can’t bear it!”

Boris, with the tears falling slowly from his eyes, followed his sister up to the tower, and there they remained till evening, straining their eyes over the wide stretch of desolate-looking water.

CHAPTER IV.

It was some months afterwards. The flood was over, and the people of Viletna had begun to rebuild their log houses, and collect what could be found of their scattered belongings.

A portion of the great dyke had remained standing, so that the lake did not completely empty itself; and the peasants were able, with some help from the Government, to rebuild it.

Everyone had suffered; but the heaviest blow had fallen upon the great house, for Madame Olsheffsky never returned to it. Her boat had been upset and carried away, with the sudden force of the current, and though Alexis managed to save himself by clinging to an uprooted pine tree, Madame Olsheffsky had been torn from him, and sucked under by the rush of the furious water.

Elena’s face had grown pale and thin during these sad weeks, and she and Boris looked older; for they had begun to face the responsibilities of life, with no kind mother to stand between them and the hard reality.

To add to their misfortunes, the wooden box containing the title-deeds of their estate, and all their other valuable papers; had been swept away with the rest of Lawyer Drovnine’s property, and there seemed no chance that it would ever be recovered again.

In the interval, as no defence was forthcoming, the lawsuit had been decided in favour of the Olsheffsky’s cousin; and the children were now expecting every day to receive the notice that would turn them out of their old home, and leave them without a place in the world that really belonged to them.

The few relations they had, made no sign to show they knew of their existence; but they were not without friends, and one of the first and truest of these was Volodia.

“Don’t trouble about this lawsuit, Elena Andreievna,” he said, on one of his frequent visits to the great house. “If the wickedness of the world is so great, that they rob you of what rightfully belongs to you; take no notice of it it is the will of God. You will come down with Boris Andreievitch, and Daria Andreievna, to my house, where there is plenty of room for everyone; and my wife will be proud and honoured. Then Var-Vara can live with her brother close by a good honest man, who is well able to provide for her; and Adam will hire a little place, and retire with his savings. Alexis shall find a home for Toulu You know Alexis works for his father on the farm now, and is really getting quite active. You see, Matoushka, every one is nicely provided for, and no one will suffer!”

“But how can we all live with you, when we have no money?” said Elena. “Good, kind Volodia! It would not be fair for us to be a burden to you!”

“How can you talk of burdens, Elena Andreievna! It’s quite wrong of you, and really almost makes me angry! Your grandfather gave me all the money with which I started in life, and it’s no more than paying back a little of it. Besides, think of the honour! Think what a proud thing it will be for us. All the village will be envious!”

Elena smiled sadly. “I suppose we shall have a little money left, shan’t we, Volodia?”

“Of course, Matoushka. Plenty for everything you’ll want.”

And so, after much argument and discussion, with many tears and sad regrets, the three children said good-bye to the great house; and drove with Toulu down the hill for the last time, to Volodia’s large new wooden house, which had been re-built in a far handsomer style than the log hut he had lived in formerly.

CHAPTER V.

Fortunately the winter that year was late in coming, so that the peasants of Viletna were able to build some sort of shelter for themselves before it set in with real severity.

Volodia’s house, which stood in the centre of the village, had been finished long before any of his neighbours’.

“That’s what comes of being a rich man,” they said to each other, not grumbling, but stating a fact. “He can employ what men he likes; it is a fine thing to have money.”

Volodia’s shop had always been popular, but with the arrival of the three children it became ten times more so.

Everyone wished to show sympathy for their misfortunes; and all those who were sufficiently well off, brought a little present, and left it with Volodia’s wife, with many mysterious nods and explanations.

“Don’t tell them anything about it, but just cook it. It’s a chicken we reared ourselves one of those saved from the flood.”

Volodia would have liked to give the things back again, but his wife declared this would be such an affront to the donors that she really couldn’t undertake to do it.

“It’s not for ourselves, Volodia Ivanovitch, but for those poor innocent children; I can’t refuse what’s kindly meant. Many’s the rouble Anna Olsheffsky (of blessed memory) has given to the people here, and why shouldn’t they be allowed to do their part?”

Meanwhile, Elena and Boris, were getting slowly used to their changed life. It still seemed more like a dream than a reality; but they began to feel at home in the wooden house, and Elena had even commenced to learn some needlework from Var-Vara, and to help Maria in as many ways as that active old woman would allow of.

“Don’t you touch it, Elena Andreievna,” she would say, anxiously, “it’s not fit you should work like us. Leave it to Adam, and Var-Vara, and me. We’re used to it, and it’s suitable.”

And so Elena had to give herself up to being waited upon as tenderly by the old servants, as she had been during their time of happiness at the great house.

Boris had no time for brooding, for he was working hard at his lessons with the village Priest; and as to little Daria, she had quickly adapted herself to the new surroundings.

She played with Tulipán, made snow castles in Volodia’s side yard, and whenever she had the chance, enjoyed a sledge drive with Alexis, in the forest.

“If only mamma were here, I should be quite happy,” she said to Elena. “It does seem so dreadful, Elena, to think of that horrible flood. You don’t think it will come again, do you?”

Elena’s eyes filled with tears, as she answered reassuringly.

“You’ll see mamma some day, Daria, if you’re a very good girl; and meantime, you know, she would like you to learn your lessons, and be as obedient as possible to Var-Vara.”

“Well, I do try, Elena, but she is so tiresome sometimes. She won’t let me play with the village children! They’re very nice, but she says they’re peasants. I’m sure I try to remember what you teach me, though the things are so difficult. I’m not so very lazy, Elena!”

Elena stooped her dark brown head over the little golden one.

“You’re a darling, Daria! I know you do your best, when you don’t forget all about it!”

Volodia Ivanovitch had devoted his two best rooms to the children. He had at first wished to give up the whole of his house to them, with the exception of one bedroom; but Elena had developed a certain strength of character and resolution during their troubles, and absolutely refused to listen to this idea; so that finally the old man was obliged to give way, and turn his attention to arranging the rooms, in a style of what he considered, surpassing elegance and comfort.

They were plain and simple, with fresh boarded walls and pine floors.

The furniture had all been brought from the great house, chosen by Volodia with very little idea of its suitability, but because of something in the colour or form that struck him as being particularly handsome.

A large gilt console table, with marble top, and looking glass, took up nearly one side of Elena’s bedroom; and a glass chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling where it was always interfering with the heads of the unwary. The bed had faded blue satin hangings; and a large Turkish rug and two ricketty gilt chairs, completed an effect which Uncle Volodia and his wife considered to be truly magnificent.

Boris slept in the room adjoining.

This was turned into a sitting-room in the daytime, and furnished in the same luxurious manner. Chairs with enormous coats-of-arms, a vast Dresden china vase with a gilt cover to it; and in the corner a gold picture of a Saint with a little lamp before it, always kept burning night and day by the careful Var-Vara Var-Vara in her bright red gold-bordered gown, and the strange tiara on her head, decorated with its long ribbons.

“If ever they wanted the help of the Saints, it’s now,” she would say, as she filled the glass bowl with oil, and hung it up by its chains again. “The wickedness of men has been too much for them. Aie! Aie! It’s the Lord’s will.”

CHAPTER VI.

Volodia Ivanovitch’s house stood close to the village street, so that as Elena looked from her windows she could see the long stretch of white road the snow piled up in great walls on either side the two rows of straggling, half-finished log huts, ending with the ruined Church, and the new posting-house.

In the distance, the flat surface of the frozen lake, the dark green of the pine forest, and the wide stretches of level country; broken here and there by the tops of the scattered wooden fences.

Up the street the sledges ran evenly, the horses jangling the bells on their great arched collars, the drivers in their leather fur-lined coats, cracking their whips and shouting.

Now and then a woman, in a thick pelisse, a bright-coloured handkerchief on her head, would come by; dragging a load of wood or carrying a child in her arms.

The air was stilly cold, with a sparkling clearness; the sky as blue and brilliant as midsummer.

Elena felt cheered by the exhilarating brightness. She was young, and gradually she rose from the state of indifference into which she had fallen, and began to take her old interest in all that was going on about her.

“I want to ask you something, Uncle Volodia,” she said one day, as they sat round the samivar, for she had begged that they might have at least one meal together, in the sitting-room.

Tea-urn.

Maria was rather constrained on these occasions, seeming oppressed with the feeling that she must sit exactly in the centre of her chair. She spread a large clean handkerchief out over her knees, to catch any crumbs that might be wandering, and fixed her eyes on the children with respectful solemnity.

Volodia, on the contrary, always came in smiling genially, in his old homespun blouse and high boots; and was ready for a game with Daria, or a romp with Boris, the moment the tea things had been carried away by his wife.

“What is it, Elena Andreievna?” he asked. “Nothing very serious, I hope?”

“Not very, Uncle Volodia. It’s only that I want to learn something I want to feel I can do something when our money has gone, for I know it won’t last very long.”

“Why trouble your head about business, Elena Andreievna? You know your things sold for a great deal, and it is all put away in the wooden honey-box, in the clothes chest. It will last till you’re an old woman!”

“But I would like to feel I was earning some money, Uncle Volodia. I think I might learn to make paper flowers. Don’t you think so, dear Uncle Volodia? You know I began while mamma was with us; the lady in Mourum taught me. I wish very much to go on with it.”

Uncle Volodia pondered. It might be an amusement for the poor girl, and no one need know of the crazy notion of selling them.

“If you like, Matoushka. Do just as you like,” he said.

So it was decided that Elena should be driven over to Mourum on the next market day.

Volodia had undertaken, in the intervals of shop-keeping, to teach little Daria how to count; with the elaborate arrangement of small coloured balls, on a wire frame like a gridiron, with which he added up his own sums instead of pencil and paper.

They sat down side by side with the utmost gravity. Old Volodia with the frame in one hand, Daria on a low stool, her curly golden head bent forward over the balls, as she moved them up and down, with a pucker on her forehead.

“Two and one’s five, and three’s seven, and four’s twelve, and six’s ”

“Oh, Daria Andreievna! You’re not thinking about what you’re doing!”

“Oh, really I am, Uncle Volodia; but those tiresome little yellow balls keep getting in the way.”

And then the lesson began all over again, until Daria sprang up with a laugh, and shaking out her black frock, declared she had a pain in her neck, and must run about a little!

“What a child it is!” cried Volodia admiringly. “If she lives to be a hundred, she’ll never learn the multiplication table!”

CHAPTER VII.

A post-sledge was gliding rapidly over the frozen road towards Viletna; and as it neared the village, a thin worn man, with white hair, who was sitting in it alone, leant forward and touched the driver.

“I want to go to the great house. You remember?”

“Oh, you’re going to see Mikhail? He hasn’t come to the great house yet, though. It’s all being done up.”

“No, I’m going to Madame Olsheffsky’s!”

“Anna Olsheffsky! Haven’t you heard she was drowned in the flood? Washed away. Just before the children lost their property to that thief of a cousin!”

The driver went on adding the details, not noticing that the gentleman had fallen back, and lay gasping as if for air.

“You knew Anna Olsheffsky, perhaps?” he said at last, turning towards the traveller. Then seeing his face, “Holy Saints! What is the matter? He’ll die surely, and no help to be had!”

“She was my wife,” said the gentleman hoarsely. “You don’t remember me? I am Andre Olsheffsky.”

“To think that I shouldn’t have known you, Barin!” cried the driver in great excitement, dropping the reins. “Not that it’s much to be wondered at, and you looking a young man when you left! Welcome home! Welcome home!”

“Where are the children?” said Andre Olsheffsky, brokenly. “Perhaps they’re dead, too?”

“Oh, the children are all well, Barin! They are at Volodia Ivanovitch’s.”

“Drive me there, then,” said Mr. Olsheffsky; and the sledge dashed off with a peal of its bells, and drew up with a flourish in front of Volodia’s doorway.

“Do look out, Elena!” cried Boris, who was carving a wooden man with an immense pocket-knife. “Here’s a sledge stopped, and a funny tall gentleman getting out not old, but all white!”

Elena went to the window, but the stranger had disappeared into the shop.

They could hear voices talking, now loud, now soft, then a cry of astonishment from Maria. The door burst open, and Volodia, his grey hair flying, the tears rolling down his cheeks, dragged in the white-haired gentleman by the hand.

“Oh, children! children! this is a happy day. The Barin’s come home. This is your father!”

CHAPTER VIII.

The next morning Elena and Boris awoke with a delightful feeling of expectation.

It seemed impossible to realize that their father had really come back to them, and that he was dearer and kinder than anything they had imagined!

“If only mamma were here,” sighed Elena, “how happy we should be!”

“Perhaps she knows,” said Boris soberly. “She always told us papa was a hero, and I’m sure he looks like one.”

Andre Olsheffsky felt his wife’s loss deeply. The children were his only comfort, and every moment he could spare from his business affairs he gave to them.

With Elena he discussed their position seriously.

It would be impossible, he said, to prove their claim to Madame Olsheffsky’s estate unless the lost box could be recovered, but if that were ever found the papers inside would completely establish their right. “I have sent notices to all the peasants, describing the box, and offering a reward. Who knows, Elena? it may be discovered!”

Time passed on, and though Mr. Olsheffsky made many expeditions into the town of Mourum, and drove all round the country, making enquiries of the peasants, he could hear nothing of the wooden box.

“It’s one of the secrets of the lake,” said Volodia. “That’s my opinion; it’s lying snugly at the bottom there; and it’s no good looking for it anywhere else.”

But Mr. Olsheffsky continued his enquiries.

One day, just as Daria and Var-Vara were about to start for a morning walk Elena and Boris having gone for a drive with their father an old man in a rough sheep-skin coat and plaited bark shoes came up to the house door, and taking off his high felt hat respectfully, asked if he could speak to the Barin.

Master.

“The master has gone out,” said Var-Vara, “but I daresay you can see him in the afternoon. Have you anything particular to ask him?”

“Nothing to ask, but something to show,” and the old man blinked his eyes cunningly.

“Not the wooden box!” screamed Daria. “Oh, let’s go at once! Come, Var-Vara! What a surprise for papa when he gets back! Is it the wooden box? You might tell me,” cried Daria, fixing her blue eyes on the old mujik’s face pleadingly.

“It may be, and it mayn’t be,” replied the old man. “You may come along with me if you like, Daria Andreievna. I’ll show you the way to where I live near the forest, you know. Of course, I’ve heard all about the reward,” he continued, “and as I was clearing a bit of my yard this morning, what should I find but a heap of something hard pebbles, and drift, and sticks, and such like. When I came to sorting it out for I thought, ’Why waste good wood, when you can burn it? the good God doesn’t like waste’ I struck against the corner of something hard, and there was a . Well, what do you think, Daria Andreievna?”

“A box! A box!” cried Daria, seizing one of the old man’s hands, and dancing round him in an ecstasy of delight.

“Not at all, Daria Andreievna! The legs of an old chair.”

Daria’s face fell. “I don’t see why you come to tell papa you’ve found an old chair!” she said crossly.

“Stop a bit, Matoushka. There’s more to come. Where was I?”

“The chair! You’d just found it,” said Daria, pulling at his hand impatiently.

“So I had. A chair! Well, it had no back, and as I pulled it out it felt heavy, very heavy. It wasn’t much to look at a poor chair I should call it and I thought, ‘This isn’t much of a find;’ but there inside it was something sticking as tight as wax!”

“The box!” cried Daria, “I felt sure of it!” and seizing Var-Vara by one hand, and the mujik by the other, she dragged them down the street, the old peasant remonstrating and grumbling.

“Not so fast, Daria Andreievna!” said Var-Vara, gasping for breath at the sudden rush. “Let Ivan go first; he knows the way!”

Daria could scarcely control her impatience during the walk.

“Make haste, Var-Vara! we shall never get there,” she kept crying; and old Var-Vara, who was stout, and had on a heavy fur pelisse, arrived at the hut in a state of breathless exhaustion.

“Aie! Aie! what a child it is! Show her the box now, Ivan, or we shall have no peace.”

Ivan went to the corner of his hut, where a large object stood on the top of the whitewashed stove under a red and yellow pocket-handkerchief. He carefully uncovered it, and stepping back a few paces said proudly,

“What do you think of that, now?”

It was the box, safe and unhurt, Madame Olsheffsky’s name still on it in scratched white letters.

Daria was wild with joy, and almost alarmed Ivan with her excitement. She danced about the room, threw her arms round his neck, and finally persuaded him to carry the box to Volodia’s house, so that it might be there as a delightful surprise to her father on his return.

CHAPTER IX.

The children, Volodia and his wife, Var-Vara, and Adam; all stood round eagerly as Andre Olsheffsky superintended the forcing open of the precious box.

“It’s my belief the papers will be a pulp,” whispered Volodia. “We must be ready to stand by the Barin when he finds out the disappointment.”

But the papers were not hurt. The box contained another tin-lined case, in which the parchments had lain securely, and though damaged in appearance, they were as legible as the day on which they were first written.

“Oh, papa, I am so glad!” shouted Boris and Daria; and Elena silently took her father’s hand.

“I always thought the Barin would have his own again,” cried Volodia triumphantly, forgetting that only a moment before he had been full of dismal prophecies.

Adam and Var-Vara wept for joy, and Ivan stood by smiling complacently. He felt that all this happiness had been brought about entirely by his own exertions, and he already had visions of the manner in which he would employ the handsome reward.

“No more troubling about my old age,” he thought. “I shall have as comfortable a life as the best of them.”

That evening Mr. Olsheffsky started for Moscow, carrying the parchments with him.

The two months of his absence seemed very long to the children, though they heard from him constantly; and there were great rejoicings when he returned with the news that their affairs had at last been satisfactorily settled. Mikhail Paulovitch had withdrawn his claim, and the great house was their own again.

All the peasants of the neighbourhood came in a body to congratulate them. Those who could not get into Volodia’s little sitting-room remained standing outside, and looked in respectfully through the window; while the spokesman read a long speech he had prepared for the occasion.

Mr. Olsheffsky made an appropriate reply, and then, turning to Volodia and the old servants, he thanked them in a few simple words for their goodness to the children.

“You might have knocked me flat down with a birch twig,” said Uncle Volodia afterwards, when talking it over with Adam. “The idea of thanking us for what was nothing at all but a real pleasure! He’s a good man, the Barin!”

The springtime found the children and their father settled once more in their old home, with Adam, Var-Vara, and Alexis; and life flowing on very much as it had always done, except for the absence of the gentle, motherly, Anna Olsheffsky.

Uncle Volodia continued to look after his shop with zeal; and the two rooms with the gilt furniture, which Mr. Olsheffsky had insisted on his not removing, became objects of the greatest pride and joy to him.

He never allowed anyone but himself to dust them, and in spare moments he polished the looking-glass with a piece of leather, kept carefully for the purpose in a cigar box.

“It’s a great pleasure to me,” he remarked one day to a neighbour, “to think that when I leave this house to Boris Andreievitch as I intend to do, after old Maria it will have two rooms that are fit for_any_one of the family to sleep in. He’ll never have to be ashamed of them!”

On his seventieth birthday, Elena now grown a tall slim young lady, with grave brown eyes persuaded him that it was really time to take a little rest, and enjoy himself.

He thereupon sold his stock, and devoted himself to gardening in the yard at the back of his house; where he would sit on summer evenings smoking his pipe, in the midst of giant dahlias and sunflowers.

Here Daria often came with Boris and Tulipán; and sitting by Uncle Volodia’s side, listened to the well-known stories she had heard since her babyhood always ending up with the same words in a tone of great solemnity

“And this, children, is a true story, every word of it!”