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“Smuggled,” I thought to myself; for indeed you cannot get such tea in London if you pay fifty shillings a pound.

“You like it?” she asked. Before I could answer, a small table stood at my elbow, and she was loading it with delicacies from the cupboard. The contents of that cupboard! Caviare came from it, and a small ambrosial cheese; dried figs and guava jelly; olives, cherries in brandy, wonderful filberts glazed with sugar; biscuits and all manner of queer Russian sweets. I leant back with wide eyes.

“Feodor sends us these,” said the old woman, bringing a dish of Cornish cream and a home-made loaf to give the feast a basis.

“Who’s Feodor?”

“Feodor Himkoff.” She paused a moment, and added, “He’s mate on a Russian vessel.”

“A friend?”

The question went unnoticed. “Is there any you fancy?” she asked. “Some o’t may be outlandish eatin’.”

“Do you like these things?” I looked from her to the caviare.

“I don’t know. I never tried. We keeps ’em, my man an’ I, for all poor come-by-chance folks that knocks.”

“But these are dainties for rich men’s tables.”

“May be. I’ve never tasted–they’d stick in our ozels if we tried.”

I wanted to ask a dozen questions, but thought it politer to accept this strange hospitality in silence. Glancing up presently, however, I saw her eyes still fixed on me, and laid down my knife.

“I can’t help it,” I said, “I want to know about Feodor Himkoff.”

“There’s no secret,” she answered. “Leastways, there was one, but either God has condemned or forgiven afore now. Look at my man there; he’s done all the repentin’ he’s likely to do.”

After a few seconds’ hesitation she went on–

“I had a boy, you must know–oh! a straight young man–that went for a soldier, an’ was killed at Inkerman by the Rooshians. Take another look at his father here; you think ‘en a bundle o’ frailties, I dessay. Well, when the news was brought us, this poor old worm lifts his fist up to the sun an’ says, ‘God do so to me an’ more also,’ he says, ‘if ever I falls across a Rooshian!’ An’ ‘God send me a Rooshian–just one!’ he says, meanin’ that Rooshians don’t grow on brambles hereabouts. Now the boy was our only flesh.

“Well, sir, nigh sixteen year’ went by, an’ we two were sittin’, one quakin’ night, beside this very fire, hearkenin’ to the bedlam outside: for ’twas the big storm in ‘Seventy, an’ even indoors we must shout to make ourselves heard. About ten, as we was thinkin’ to alley-couchey, there comes a bangin’ on the door, an’ Isaac gets up an’ lets the bar down, singin’ out, ‘Who is it?’

“There was a big young man ‘twixt the doorposts, drippin’ wet, wi’ smears o’ blood on his face, an’ white teeth showin’ when he talked. ‘Twas a half-furrin talk, an’ he spoke a bit faint too, but fairly grinned for joy to see our warm fire,–an’ his teeth were white as pearl.

“‘Ah, sir,’ he cried, ‘you will help? Our barque is ashore below– fifteen poor brothers! You will send for help?–you will aid?’

“Then Isaac stepped back, and spoke very slow–‘What nation?’ he asked. ‘She is Russ–we are all Russ; sixteen poor brothers from Archangel,’ said the young man, as soon as he took in the question. My man slewed round on his heel, and walked to the hearth here; but the sailor stretched out his hands, an’ I saw the middle finger of his right hand was gone. ‘You will aid, eh? Ah, yes, you will aid. They are clingin’–so–fifteen poor brothers, and many have wives.’ But Isaac said, ‘Thank Thee, God,’ and picked up a log from the hearth here. ‘Take ’em this message,’ said he, facin’ round; an’, runnin’ on the sailor, who was faint and swayin’, beat him forth wi’ the burnin’ stick, and bolted the door upon him.