ountries, she was devoting all her energies to relief work.
There were charity bazaars and concerts and Russian ballet performances,
for the benefit of the soldiers, that must be managed day and night.

After three days of luxury and idleness Nona Davis felt strong again.

Perhaps more than the other Red Cross girls she deserved credit for her
devotion to her nursing. For Nona had the southern temperament which
loves beauty and ease, and there were times in her life when she had
deliberately to shut her eyes to these enticements.

But now, with the thought of Sonya Valesky ever on her mind, she could
not allow herself to relax an hour longer than necessary.

Contrary to Barbara Meade's judgment, Nona decided to ask the advice of
their hostess as to how she should begin the search for her Russian
friend.

Instantly the American woman became less cordial. But when Nona had told
as much of the other woman's story as she dared, the Countess frankly
discussed the situation with her.

If Nona would be guided by an older woman she would give up the quest
for Sonya Valesky. Certainly Sonya's fate was an unhappy one, but she
was wholly responsible for it herself. If she had been content to take
life as she found it she would now have been occupying a brilliant
position.

The Countess evidently had no use for reformers or persons who break
away from recognized conditions. She confessed to Nona that her own
position in Russian society had been difficult to attain. Not for worlds
would she be suspected of having anything to do with a Socialist, or an
Anarchist, or whatever dreadful character Nona's friend might be! The
Countess was perfectly polite, but Nona thoroughly understood that if
she insisted upon discovering the unfortunate Sonya, her presence as a
guest in the Countess' home would no longer be desired.

Since there was nothing else to do, Nona decided that she must wait
until help came from some unexpected direction. She had no idea of
giving up the search for Sonya. But in the meantime she could enjoy
a brief rest and see Petrograd.

In the winter time Petrograd is the most beautifully quiet city in the
world. And now in war times it was scarcely less so, for the ground was
covered with many inches of snow. There was a muffled sound even to the
tread of the soldiers' feet, marching through the frozen streets.
Neither was there a single wagon or carriage to be heard, since
everybody went about in sleighs and eve