which presented themselves to his imagination. As it was, he felt himself
carried away by a sort of enthusiasm in her cause, which would have led
him to make even greater sacrifices than he had it in his power to offer.
So strong was this feeling that he felt called upon to make a sort of
apology.

"I am sorry I cannot do more to help you," he said regretfully. "It is
very little I know, but then, you see I am not alone in the world, Vjera.
There are others to be thought of. And besides, I have just paid the rent,
and there are no savings left."

"Dear Herr Schmidt," answered Vjera gratefully, "you are doing too much
already--but I cannot help taking all you give me, though I can thank you
for it with all my heart."

They did not speak again during the next few minutes, until they reached
the door of the house in which the Cossack lived.

"I shall only need a moment," he said, as he dived into the dark entrance.

He lost so little time, that it seemed to Vjera as though the echo of his
steps had not died away upon the stairs before she heard his footfall
again as he descended. This time, however, there was a rattle and clatter
of metal to be heard as well as his quick tread and the loud creaking of
his coarse, stiff shoes. He emerged into the street with the body of the
samovar under one arm. The movable brass chimney of the machine was
sticking out of one of his pockets, and in his left hand he had its little
tray, with the rings and other pieces belonging to the whole. Amongst
those latter objects, which he grasped tightly in his fingers, there
figured also the fragment of a small spoon of which the bowl had been