sent knowledge that,
intellectually speaking, she was his superior. There was something
strong and simple and manly in a sort of mediaeval way that pleased her
in this big husband of hers.

"And how did you finish him off?" she asked.

"I choked him. That bear knocked me down, but Steinmetz shot him. We
were four days out in the open after that elk. This is a lynx--a queer
face--rather like De Chauxville; the dogs killed him."

"But why do you not paper the room," asked Etta, with a shiver, "instead
of this gloomy panelling? It is so mysterious and creepy. Quite
suggestive of secret passages."

"There are no secret passages," answered Paul. "But there is a room
behind here. This is the door. I will show it to you presently. I have
things in there I want to show you. I keep all my medicines and
appliances in there. It is our secret surgery and office. In that room
the Charity League was organized."

Etta turned away suddenly and went to the narrow window, where she sat
on a low window-seat, looking down into the snow-clad depths.

"I did not know you were a doctor," she said.

"I doctor the peasants," replied Paul, "in a rough-and-ready way. I took
my degree on purpose. But, of course, they do not know that it is I;
they think I am a doctor from Moscow. I put on an old coat, and wear a
scarf, so that they cannot see my face. I only go to them at night. It
would never do for the Government to know that we attempt to do good to
the peasants. We have to keep it a secret even from the people
themselves. And they hate us. They groan and hoot when we drive through
the village. But they never attempt to do us any harm; they are too much
afraid of us."

When Etta rose and came toward him her face was colorless.

"Let me see this room," she said.

He opened the door and followed her into the apartment, which has
already been described. Here he told further somewhat bald details of
the work he had attempted to do. It is to be feared that he made neither
an interesting nor a romantic story of it. There were too many
details--too much statistic, and no thrilling realism whatever. The
experiences of a youthful curate in Bethnal Green would have made high
tragedy beside the tale that this man told his wife of the land upon
which God has assuredly laid His curse--Aceldama, the field of blood.

Etta listened, and despite herself she became interested. She was
sitting in a chair usually occupied by Steinmetz. There was a fai