their whispers deadened by the rattle of the looms.

I was searching for a house in Brussels some winters ago, and there
was one I was sent to in a small street leading out of the Avenue
Louise. It was poorly furnished, but rich in pictures, large and
small. They covered the walls of every room.

"These pictures," explained to me the landlady, an old, haggard-
looking woman, "will not be left, I am taking them with me to London.
They are all the work of my husband. He is arranging an exhibition."

The friend who had sent me had told me the woman was a widow, who had
been living in Brussels eking out a precarious existence as a
lodging-house keeper for the last ten years.

"You have married again?" I questioned her.

The woman smiled.

"Not again. I was married eighteen years ago in Russia. My husband
was transported to Siberia a few days after we were married, and I
have never seen him since."

"I should have followed him," she added, "only every year we thought
he was going to be set free."

"He is really free now?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered. "They set him free last week. He will join me
in London. We shall be able to finish our honeymoon."