ocal color in the
present narrative. Having safely arrived at Petersburg, we have nothing
to tell of that romantic city--no hints at deep-laid plots, no prison,
nor tales of jail-birds--tales with salt on them, bien entendu--the
usual grain. We have hardly mentioned the Nevski Prospekt, which street
by ancient right must needs figure in all Russian romance. We have
instead been prating of drawing-rooms and mere interiors of houses,
which to-day are the same all the world over. A Japanese fan is but a
Japanese fan, whether it hang on the wall of a Canadian drawing-room or
the matting of an Indian bungalow. An Afghan carpet is the same on any
floor. It is the foot that treads the carpet which makes one to differ
from another.

Whether it be in Petersburg or Pekin, it still must be the human being
that lends the interest to the still life around it. A truce, therefore,
to picturesque description--sour grapes to the present pen--of church
and fort and river, with which the living persons of whom we tell have
little or nothing to do.

Maggie was alone in the great drawing-room of the house at the end of
the English Quay--alone and grave. Some people, be it noted, are gravest
when alone, and they are wise, for the world has too much gravity for us
to go about it with a long face, making matters worse. Let each of us be
the centre of his own gravity. Maggie Delafield had, perhaps, that spark
in the brain for which we have but an ugly word. We call it "pluck." And
by it we are enabled to win a losing game--and, harder still, to lose a
losing game--without much noise or plaint.

Whatever this girl's joys or sorrows may have been--and pray you, madam,
remember that no man ever knows his neighbor's heart!--she succeeded as
well as any in concealing both. There are some women who tell one just
enough about themselves to prove that they can understand and
sympathize. Maggie was of these; but she told no more.

She was alone when Paul came into the room. It was a large room, with
more than one fire-place. Maggie was reading, and she did not look
round. Paul stopped--warming himself by the fire nearest to the door. He
was the sort of man to come into a room without any remark.

Maggie looked up for a moment, glancing at the wood fire. She seemed to
know for certain that it was Paul.

"Have you been out?" she asked.

"Yes--calling."

He came toward her, standing beside her with his hands clasped behind
his back, looking into