t and feathers! I
am only a weak woman, Christian Gregorovitch, but I have four children--"

The Cossack heard no more, for he closed the street door behind him and
returned to Vjera's side. She was standing as he had left her, absorbed in
the contemplation of the financial crisis.

"Five more," said he, giving her the silver. "That is one half. Now for
the other. But are you quite sure, Vjera, that it is as bad as you think?
I know that Fischelowitz does not in the least expect the money."

"No--I daresay not. But I know this, if I had not met him just now and
promised to bring him the fifty marks, he would have been raving mad
before morning." Schmidt saw by her look that she was convinced of the
fact.

"Very well," he said. "I am not going to turn back now. The poor Count has
done me many a good turn in his time, and I will do my best, though I do
not exactly see what more I can do, at such short notice."

"Have you got anything worth pawning, Herr Schmidt?" asked Vjera,
ruthless, as devoted people can be when the object of their devotion is in
danger.

"Well--I have not much that I can spare. There is the bed--but my wife
cannot sleep on the floor, though I would myself. And there are a few pots
and pans in the kitchen--not worth much, and I do not know what we should
do without them. I do not know, I am sure. I cannot take the children's
things, Vjera, even for you."

"No," said Vjera doubtfully. "I suppose not. Of course not!" she
exclaimed, immediately afterwards, with an attempt to express conviction.

"There is one thing--there is the old samovar," continued the Cossack. "It
has a leak in one side, and we make the tea as we can, when we have any.
But I remember that I once pawned it, years ago, for five marks."

"That would make thirty," said Vjera promptly.

"I do not believe they would lend so much on it now, though it is good
metal. It is a little battered, besides being leaky."

"Let us get it," said Vjera, beginning to walk briskly on. "I have
something, too, though I do not know what it is worth. It is an old skin
of a wolf--my father killed it inside the village, just before we came
away."

"A wolf skin!" exclaimed Schmidt. "That may be worth something, if it is
good."

"I am afraid it is not very good," answered Vjera doubtfully. "The hair
comes out. I think it must have been a mangy wolf. And there is a bad hole
on one side."

"It was probably badly cured," said the Cossack, who unders