have got a cursed notion that I am crazy. whereas the truth is, I was never so sane in all my life. You can see for yourself, Doctor, that I am no more crazy than you or any other man; yet see how I am treated?" And throwing back his head he exclaimed dramatically: "But man, proud man, Dressed in a little brief authority, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven Notwithstanding all my efforts to induce sleep, as night drew on his delirium increased. He was incessantly talking and endeavoring to get out of bed. Through the night his talk ran to cards and dice and the various methods of gambling. "He must get back that money. He had been cheated, grossly cheated; but mother must not know, and Tom must not know; he must get back that money, quick! quick! Poor mother should live like a queen; "It is an outrage, Doctor; it is an out- Tom should never want that money-that rage." "That is true. It is an outrage, an outrageous outrage." And bending over him as if fearful of being overheard: "Now I will tell you what we will do. We are both in the same boat. I have got to stay here, and you have got to stay here till they choose to let us go. But we won't wear strait-jackets, either of us. If you will lie still and keep covered I will get this jacket off; but mind, if you go to throwing yourself about and getting up, they will see that the jacket is off, and it will go on again before you can say Jack." He promised as solemnly as if his life was at stake, as I truly believe it was. He lay quite still while I unstripped his person, and with eager haste he helped me get off his jacket and throw it under the cot. Never was man more rejoiced or more grateful; but he forgot his promise instantly, for he sat up in bed and began to make me a speech. What he said I never knew. I only saw that he was speaking rapidly, with a repeated outward and upward movement of the left hand, a gesture peculiar to Tom Peebles. Then, too, at the conclusion of some impassioned sentence, I heard the rising inflection of Tom's earnest voice. It was not strange that Joel Dyer, looking at and listening to the Rev. Mr. Peebles, saw also Robert Lyon. I recovered promptly, and pointing to the jacket under the bed reminded him of his promise. He plunged under the coverlid, and for a while lay as still as a stone. From that moment I was able to enforce silence in the midst of his wildest paroxysms; that jacket had turned into some horrible monster waiting to devour him. money." More convincing evidence could not be furnished that this poor creature was Tom's brother and Dyer's victim, though Dyer's name was never mentioned. Soon after daylight the attending physician looked in and shook his head. "Unless the critical sleep comes soon, it will come only with death. You must be tired; come and rest; I will find you a quiet place," said he kindly. But I left him only for necessary refreshments. Till he slept I could not sleep. It was as if I carried Tom's heart, Dyer's conscience, and Agnes's anguish in my own bosom, along with that direst of all burdens, the weight of an unrepentant soul, going swiftly and blindfold into the presence of its Maker. Professor Tyndall says something like this: "Prayer is the cry of a creature in distress." Granted, and it proves more than he would believe. If there was not in everything that lives a premonition, however blind, of a strength beyond its weakness, of a help for its distress, would anything ever cry out? Was there ever a demand for which there was absolutely no supply? And it is also a way of escape. There comes, sooner or later, into the lives of most men and women, hours when if it were not for this way of escape, this upward avenue along which sore-footed need can climb to something stronger and higher, the agony could not be borne. It may be no articulate prayer, no conscious putting into words of the creature's imperative necessity; but it is nevertheless a sending out from ourselves of a certain portion of our misery, which, if it has no other result, enables us to bear what remains. So that day was to me one continuous prayer. Words I had none. I was conscious only of an importunate uplifting of my soul to Him in whose hands lay all issues. It was as if I was carrying this poor creature in my arms and holding him up before his Maker. If I could have said anything it would have been, "Look, Lord, look!" Toward night symptoms of exhaustion began to be manifest. "Convulsions come,-and the end," said the attending physician as he stopped to look at him on his way through the ward. "You think his chance is small then?" "Very small. This is probably not his first attack." I told him. Hydrate of chloral was then just coming into use among venturesome practitioners, and had been employed with good effect in cases of mania a potu. French physicians are usually well up in all the novelties, but this man was elderly and conservative, and disposed to stick to the old ways rather than risk the lives of his patients by experiments. He mused dubiously before he said: "Well, yes. He will die any way, and a few hours more or less, are of little consequence." I wanted to be sure that the preparation was pure and fresh, and he told me where to go, and kindly gave me a note to the apothecary. The first dose seemed to increase his deThus far I had followed closely the phy- lirium, but directly after the second he besician's directions. Now I asked: gan to get quiet, and almost immediately "Are you willing to leave him entirely in fell into a sound sleep. The attending physician stayed by his cot, manifesting a my hands?" He looked at me narrowly. "You wish keen interest, till he was convinced that the Come back thou kindred of speech, But it haunted my chamber bower, That cry, till the sunset hour. Harriet McEwen Kimball. A RUSSIAN VILLAGE TEA-PARTY. SUNSET over the village of Ismailow; the tall green tower of the single church, with its lead-covered cupola, standing boldly out against the crimson sky; several scores of quaint little log huts clustered around it, like chickens under the wing of the motherhen; the last ray of the sinking sun casting a momentary gleam upon the shining curves of one of the countless tributaries of the Volga, as it winds around the base of the slope on which the village stands; all around, outstretched for many a mile, the soft, dreamy, sunny uplands of Central Russia; and, far in the background, the shadowy masses of the ancient pine forest looming sullenly along the darkening horizon. But, picturesque as is the scene itself, it is fully matched by the group of figures that cluster around me, as I sit perched on one of those huge iron-clamped chests, painted bright vermilion,* which are to the Russian peasant what a grand piano or a carved sideboard is to his civilized brethren. Strangelooking fellows indeed they are, these lowbrowed, sallow, bearded, yellow-haired men; with the dogged endurance of their race written in every line of their patient, stolid, unyielding faces. Some are in red calico shirts, worn over their other clothes; some, despite the heat of the room, keep to the traditional sheepskin frock. A few wear knee-high boots, smeared with tar; but the majority are barefooted, and bare-headed likewise. These are the famous "Mujiks" of Russia, of whom so much is said and so little known; *The negro himself is not more childishly fond of gay colors than the Russian, whose very word for "beautiful" (prekrasni) means literally "bright red." and the faithful description of whose daily life would seem as monstrous and incredible as the first accounts of the African gorilla. Ignorant as an Australian savage; superstitious as an ancient Athenian; inured to hardships from which a medieval anchorite would have shrunk; at once a glutton and an ascetic; peaceful even to sluggishness, yet capable of the most horrible vengeance; able to sustain life on a pittance of food that would starve an Indian, and to pass whole nights out of doors in the depth of winter, with no protection save a tattered sheepskin; intensely susceptible of kindness, yet ungovernable save by the extreme of severity, the Mujik is indeed the strangest of all the waifs stranded by the ebb of the Middle Ages upon the shore of the nineteenth century. But, strange as are the guests, there is no lack of good cheer. The tumblers (for no true Russian ever thinks of drinking tea from a cup) have been drained again and again; the sliced lemons which here do duty for milk, are already beginning to run short; and the huge black rye loaf, once as big as a hassock, is more than half demolished. Nor is all this feasting without a cause. We are now within three days of Lent, and the festival of "Maslenitza" (Butter Week) is being celebrated in this remote corner as zealously as in Moscow or St. Petersburg itself. Beside the samovar (tea-urn) which, having just been replenished, is now hissing and steaming like a miniature volcano, lies a huge platter of those small, round buckwheat cakes, famous throughout Russia under the name of "blinni," which are the traditional dainty of the season. They are usually eaten with fresh caviare, or butter, or "swetana," (sour cream) or all three together, as taste may direct; but out here on the steppe, where such relishes are not easily come by, we are fain to content ourselves with mutton fat. While the teeth are so busy, the tongues are anything but idle; for to these isolated villagers, in whose eyes a journey to Moscow or Saratoff is like a Polar voyage or an African expedition, the arrival of a traveled vistor is no small treat; and they at once overwhelmed me with questions. "And you have really been to Jerusalem, father? It must have been a tremendous long journey for you!" "Aye, aye," chimes in another; "he that remembers by-gones, let him have his eye put out" (a native proverb). 66 "But tell me, father," resumes my opposite neighbor, are the countries of the South really as beautiful as people make them out?" "You may say that, Stepan Yakovitch" (Stephen, son of James). "In some of the countries where I've been, I saw trees growing, one leaf of which would roof this hut of yours ! "Think of that, now!" "And grapes growing by the wayside, just as tcherneeki (blueberries) do here." "See there, brothers; what things there "Not so, brother; it's only twelve days are in this world, to be sure?" from here." Visible sensation among my audience. "Twelve days!" echoes a brawny fellow opposite me, in a tone of unbounded amazement. "Why, I thought it was right away at the ends of the earth, beyond thrice nine lands" (the Russian phrase for extreme distance). "No, not quite so far as that. You ride to Jaffa, and go by steamer to Constantinople, and then across the Black Sea to Odessa; and from there, if you like, you can go round the Crimea, as I've been doing." "And did you see the place where Pavel Petrovitch* lost his arm?" asks my vis-a-vis eagerly, glancing at a one-armed old man in the corner, whose keen bright eye almost contradicts the testimony of his snow-white beard and hair, against which his scarred, swarthy face looks doubly grim. "Were you in that business then, brother?" ask I, turning to the veteran. "Yes, father, I was down there in '54; and it was one of your countrymen who did this job for me" (tapping his empty sleeve). "But what then? when men fight, they've got to fight, of course, and I don't bear him any grudge. We're all brothers again now, thank God; and after all, if it was an Englishman that made the wound, it was an Englishman who tied it up for me; aye, and tore up his own shirt to do it!" *Pavel the son of Peter, the customary form of address in Russia, even from a servant. "And no winter all the year round." This unlucky announcement destroys at once the effect of all that has preceded it. A sudden chill falls upon my hearers, who exchange looks of silent horror. "No winter!" exclaims the soldier at length. "Well, that is Heaven's judgment on the unbelievers; they don't deserve to have one!" "Ach, Pavel Petrovitch!" whispers his neighbor, "don't you see that the Barin (master) is making fun of us? As if any one could get on without a winter!" By this time every one has had enough, and there is a general "piling of arms," in the midst of which I observe: "Now, lads, after a feast comes a song, you know; and Pavel Petrovitch here is just the man to sing it. I'll be bound he has sung many a good one by the camp-fire, in the old days of '54." There is a general murmur of approval; and the old "moustache," obviously gratified at the compliment, strikes up at once, in a voice which has lost little of the mellow ring wherewith it once defied the snows of Bessarabia and the bullets of Inker mann. "Our Eagle's wing is strong and wide, Thro' which its flight hath been. And then the chorus breaks out fullmouthed, with a power of time and tune worthy of any orchestra: "For God and for the Czar, "Then fear not swords that brightly shine, Nor steel, nor fire, nor mountain snow, Chorus-" For God and for the Czar," etc. "Well sung, Pavel Petrovitch!" remark I, as the song ends. "After that, the least we can do is to drink the Czar's healthLong live Father Alexander Nikolaievitch!" Long live Father Alexander Nikolaievitch!" echo all. 66 66 He You must know, then, brothers, that there lived in Holy Russia, many, many years ago, a man who was so rich that to reckon his wealth would have been like counting the grass of the steppes. lived in a house as big as yonder church, and had a carriage finer than our District Inspector's; and all the dishes on his table were of gold; and he kept troops of servants in gay liveries, and drank costly wines from beyond the sea, and had white bread for breakfast every morning *; and, in short, he was such a great man that every one called him Vasili the Golden.' have been a better name for him; for his heart was like a flint. If a disabled soldier came limping along the road, or a poor halfstarved pilgrim crawled to the door to beg for alms, all he got was a kick, and 'Be off out of this, you dirty fellow!' And, worse still, though his own sister (who was as poor as he was rich) lived in a miserable hut at his very door, and was almost crippled with rheumatism, he never offered to help her a bit; and, indeed, he had more than once threatened to pull down her hut altogether, saying that he wouldn't have such a pig-sty near his door. "Well, at last Vasili's heart was so lifted up by his great riches, that he said to himself, 'There is no man worthy to be my guest; I will invite our Lord himself to come and sup with me!' So he brought out all his best dishes and richest wines, and put his servants in their gayest liveries, and spread a carpet on the steps of his house, and waited for our Lord to come and be his guest. "All day he sat watching and waiting; and whenever a fine carriage appeared in the distance, or a troop of horsemen in uniform came dashing along, he thought, This must be He!' But carriages and horsemen went by, and still no guest. At last, just as the sun was setting, a poor, thin, weary-looking man came slowly up to the door; and he showed his bleeding feet, and craved charity in God's name. "But Vasili was angry at waiting so long in vain; and he thrust him rudely away, saying: 'Begone to my sister's hut yonder ; you and she will be well matched!' And the beggar turned away without a word. "Next morning there stood at Vasili's door a woman whose face was like his sister's; but instead of being crippled, she was straight as a grenadier; and instead of rags, she wore a dress worth four roubles ($3) a yard. She held out her hand to him and said: "But, to my mind, Vasili the Iron would great picture above the altar in our church; *This is the Mujik's beau-ideal of luxury. and he laid his hand softly on my head, |