[Illustration: AVANTI, SAVOIA!]

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A DAUGHTER OF THE BACK STEPPES.

_(Russia may not yet be quite sufficiently herself to be the martial
ally that we could desire, but she still continues to send us the most
delightful fiction. Mr. PUNCH is privileged in being able to offer his
readers the opening of a new and fascinating story translated from the
Russian of Ghastlilkoff.)_

I was born in the year 18--, and I have never ceased to regret it. I
lived with my grandmother. She was called Natasha. I do not know why.
She had a large mole on her left cheek. Often she would embrace me with
tears and lament over me, crying, "My little sad one, my little lonely
one!" Yet I was not sad; I had too many griefs. Nor was I lonely, for I
had no playmates.

Often my grandmother told me I was ugly. I had no mirror, so I believed
her. When I was sixteen a man I met in the street went mad for love of
me and cut his throat. For the first time in my life I wondered if my
grandmother always spoke the truth. I went home and wept, but when she
asked me why I could not tell her.

Our house was quite dark. It had three rooms leading in and out of one
another, and no windows. There was not much fresh air. Every morning my
grandmother went out to buy otchkza and pickled onions. The man who sold
them was very old. He had a cast in each eye. He inquired of my
grandmother if she would allow him to be my husband, but she refused.