you."

"Wait a moment--yes--I have almost finished the seam--here is the box.
Now, if you can hold the match just there, just over the needle, and keep
it from going out, I can finish the end off neatly."

Vjera knelt down beside him and held the flickering bit of wood as well as
she was able. They made a strange picture, out in the unfrequented street,
the dim glare of the gaslight above them, and the redder flame of the
match making odd tints and shadows in their faces. Vjera's shawl had
slipped back from her head and her thick tress of red-brown hair had found
its way over her shoulder. An artist, strolling supperwards from his
studio, came down their side of the way. He stopped and looked at them.

"Has anything happened?" he asked kindly. "Can I be of any use?"

Vjera looked up with a frightened glance. The Cossack paid no attention to
the stranger.

"Oh no, thank you--thank you, sir, it is nothing--only a little piece of
work to finish."

The artist gave one more look and passed on, wishing that he could have
had pencil and paper and light at his command for five minutes.

"There," said Schmidt triumphantly. "It is done, and very well done. And
now for the pawn-shop, Vjera!"

Vjera took the skin over her arm and her companion picked up the samovar
with its tray, and they moved on again. Vjera's face was pale and sad, but