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“Sonia, are you not cold?”

“No; and you?”

Nicolas pulled up, and giving the reins to a man to drive, he ran back to the sleigh in which Natacha was sitting.

“Listen,” he said, in a whisper and in French; “I have made up my mind to tell Sonia.”

“And you have spoken to her?” exclaimed Natacha, radiant with joy.

“Oh, Natacha, how queer that mustache makes you look! Are you glad?”

“Glad! I am delighted. I did not say anything, you know, but I have been so vexed with you. She is a jewel, a heart of gold. I–I am often naughty, and I have no right to have all the happiness to myself now. Go, go back to her.”

“No. Wait one minute. Mercy, how funny you look!” he repeated, examining her closely and discovering in her face, too, an unwonted tenderness and emotion that struck him deeply. “Natacha, is there not some magic at the bottom of it all, heh?”

“You have acted very wisely. Go.”

“If I had ever seen Natacha look as she does at this moment I should have asked her advice and have obeyed her, whatever she had bid me do; and all would have gone well. So you are glad?” he said, aloud. “I have done right?”

“Yes, yes, of course you have! I was quite angry with mamma the other day about you two. Mamma would have it that Sonia was running after you. I will not allow any one to say–no, nor even to think–any evil of her, for she is sweetness and truth itself.”

“So much the better.” Nicolas jumped down and in a few long strides overtook his own sleigh, where the little Circassian received him with a smile from under the fur hood; and the Circassian was Sonia, and Sonia beyond a doubt would be his beloved little wife!

When they got home the two girls went into the countess’s room and gave her an account of their expedition; then they went to bed. Without stopping to wipe off their mustaches they stood chattering as they undressed; they had so much to say of their happiness, their future prospects, the friendship between their husbands:

“But, oh! when will it all be? I am so afraid it will never come to pass,” said Natacha, as she went toward a table on which two looking-glasses stood.

“Sit down,” said Sonia, “and look in the glass; perhaps you will see something about it.” Natacha lighted two pairs of candles and seated herself. “I certainly see a pair of mustaches,” she said, laughing.

“You should not laugh,” said the maid, very gravely.

Natacha settled herself to gaze without blinking into the mirror; she put on a solemn face and sat in silence for some time, wondering what she should see. Would a coffin rise before her, or would Prince Andre presently stand revealed against the confused background in the shining glass? Her eyes were weary and could hardly distinguish even the flickering light of the candles. But with the best will in the world she could see nothing; not a spot to suggest the image either of a coffin or of a human form. She rose.

“Why do other people see things and I never see anything at all? Take my place, Sonia; you must look for yourself and for me, too. I am so frightened; if I could but know!”

Sonia sat down and fixed her eyes on the mirror.

“Sofia Alexandrovna will be sure to see something,” whispered Douniacha; “but you always are laughing at such things.” Sonia heard the remark and Natacha’s whispered reply: “Yes, she is sure to see something; she did last year.” Three minutes they waited in total silence. “She is sure to see something,” Natacha repeated, trembling.

Sonia started back, covered her face with one hand, and cried out:

“Natacha!”

“You saw something? What did you see?” And Natacha rushed forward to hold up the glass.

But Sonia had seen nothing; her eyes were getting dim, and she was on the point of giving it up when Natacha’s exclamation had stopped her; she did not want to disappoint them; but there is nothing so tiring as sitting motionless. She did not know why she had called out and hidden her face.

“Did you see him?” asked Natacha.

“Yes; stop a minute. I saw him,” said Sonia, not quite sure whether “him” was to mean Nicolas or Prince Andre. “Why not make them believe that I saw something?” she thought. “A great many people have done so before, and no one can prove the contrary. Yes, I saw him,” she repeated.

“How? standing up or lying down?”

“I saw him–at first there was nothing; then suddenly I saw him lying down.”

“Andre, lying down? Then he is ill!” And Natacha gazed horror-stricken at her companion.

“Not at all; he seemed quite cheerful, on the contrary,” said she, beginning to believe in her own inventions.

“And then–Sonia, what then?”

“Then I saw only confusion–red and blue.”

“And when will he come back, Sonia? When shall I see him again? O God! I am afraid for him–afraid of everything.”

And, without listening to Sonia’s attempts at comfort, Natacha slipped into bed, and, long after the lights were out, she lay motionless but awake, her eyes fixed on the moonshine that came dimly through the frost-embroidered windows.

A Wayfarer’s Fancy.

“A felicitous combination of the German, the Sclave, and the Semite, with grand features, brown hair floating in artistic fashion, and brown eyes in spectacles.”

George Eliot.