ver 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
she seemed more confident of success than ever, and her step was elastic
and hopeful. Johann Schmidt's curiosity was very great, as has been seen
on previous occasions. He did his best to control it, for some time, only
trying to guess from the general appearance of the limp parcel what it
might contain. But his ingenuity failed to solve the problem. At last he
could bear it no longer. They were entering the street where the
pawnbroker's shop was situated when his resolution broke down.

"Is it a piece of lace?" he asked at a venture. "If it is, you know, and
if it is good, it may be worth all the other things together."

"No. It is not a piece of lace," answered the girl. "I will tell you what
it is, if we do not get enough without it."

"I only thought," explained the Cossack, "that if we were going to try and
pawn it, I had better know--"

"We cannot pawn it," said Vjera decisively. "It will have to be sold. Let
us go in together." She spoke the last words as they reached the door of
the pawn-shop.

"I could save you the trouble," Schmidt suggested, offering to take the
wolf's skin. But Vjera would not give it up. She felt that she must see
everything done herself, if only to distract her thoughts from mor