and macaroni; the latter I used to chew raw in those days.

Dusk found us still at work with the cold, the damp and the flood of heaven's tears increasing. Louder and louder the rain drops drummed on the boards of the goods cases. Somewhere in the distance a watchman's rattle was going.

Has this box a bottom, or not?' asked my partner. gave it up. Few women have good ideas, but this one had.

I

"Let's break off the lock - we might as well go to jail for one thing as for the other," she said.

I broke the lock with a stone and my friend crawled in. She began stock taking. "A basket of soda water bottles, an empty valise, a sun umbrella, a piece of carpet —" 'Nothing to eat?" I felt my hopes dashed to the ground. Suddenly she cried: "Hi, here it is."

"What, the sausage?"

The bread rolled to the ground, and after it my comrade.

Seeing that I was munching before she had had a show herself, she cried impatiently: "Let me have a bit, too, greedy." And then: "We can't stay here and live. What shall we do?" She looked inquiringly in all directions. Nothing but darkness and wet.

"I saw a turned-up boat on shore. I think I can find it again. Shall we try that?"

Instead of answer my companion took me by the arm. I had hold of the bread, breaking off chunks as our mouths got empty.

The rain was increasing, the river howled, the wind alternately groaned and sobbed. Then a loud, ear-splitting whistle, the whistle of a full belly, surely, who didn't care a farthing for the sufferings of the starving. It hurt me, but didn't affect my appetite nor the girl's.

'What's your name?" I asked at last, ashamed of working my jaws without interruption.

"Natascha," replied the girl, with a mouth full of

bread.

III.

The rain beat incessantly upon the boat that sheltered us, the water trickling in through numerous cracks; the icy wind, too, made itself felt with cutting severity. At the beam end was a hole as big as your fist. There a puppy had crawled in, merciless Boreas following.

Doggy whined as if his heart would break. And with the regularity of clockwork the waves broke on shore. A monotonous, hopeless story they told with a thousand mouths. Full of sorrow and darkness was their tale; they loathed it, but had to repeat it just the same.

At times it sounded as if the sighs of an evil spirit wafted past the roof of our poor lodgings, a long, endless wail of some one tired of the eternal sameness of things. And the wind continued to sing hymns of sorrow and desolation.

Our lodgings were neither as comfortable as a stable nor as cheerful as many a dug-out I have known; they were narrow, damp, malodorous and cold.

We sat silent and trembling; my eyes were heavy with sleep. Natascha, leaned with her back against the side of the boat, making herself as small as possible in an effort to keep at least some warmth in her body. Her chin rested on her knees, 'round which her arms were drawn, while her wide open eyes stared into space. She never stirred and her mute immobility had in it the shadow of awe. Half frightened, I thought of speaking to her, but didn't know what. She began herself.

"What a wretched existence the like of us lead!" It was not said in a spirit of complaint- there was far too much indifference in her tone for that! As I agreed with Natascha I saw no reason for reply. "If one could only make an end of it all," she continued slowly and thoughtfully, again without a shade of regret. Evidently this girl, young as she was, had come to the conclusion that, to escape the hardships of life, it was best to give up life itself.

When I heard her words and reflected upon them, the

tears rose to my eyes. But as Natascha scorned to blubber, it would have been unseemly for me to do so.

"Who beat you?" I asked after a while.

66

Who else but Paschka, my lover - we are to be married next Spring."

66

66

Was it the first time he beat you?"

No, no," she replied, making haste to correct so foolish an impression. "He thrashes me every time he gets full of wodka." And she moved up closer. She was a servant out of work, he a baker, had a red mustache and played delightfully on the hurdy-gurdy. Clean he was; his Sunday clothes cost him fifteen rubles, his bootlegs had red tops; in short, he was a "prize." Natascha loved him and gave him all she earned. He accepted, got drunk, and beat her. The beating she didn't mind, but that he flirted with other girls-that was unbearable.

This afternoon I found him with that hussy, Dunka, and upbraided him. He knocked me down. He trampled upon me, dragged me around the sidewalk by my hair. But that wasn't the worst. He tore my best suit of clothes the only one left, for I had to sell the rest to live. Tore it to tatters, dress and jacket and headcloth. What am I to do?" she cried suddenly, out into the night. "I daren't go after a place, for the police I will arrest me. Now, what can I do?"

The wind blew faster and faster, colder and colder. As in the afternoon, when my stomach was absolutely empty, my teeth chattered. Natascha bent lower under the frost.

"Man is a beast, all men are beasts," she observed after an interval in a matter of fact way, and her quietude, the absence of violent anger, or hatred, impressed me more than words can tell. There was the difference between witnessing death's agony and reading about it. I groaned and ground my teeth.

At that moment I felt two small, cold hands, one upon my neck, the other patting my face. And an anxious, sweet, gently caressing voice queried: "What ails you? Before I could say a word Natascha continued: 66 Are you cold? May the Holy Mother of Kasan pro

tect you from freezing—it's a horrible death, they say." Then, somewhat peremptorily: "Answer, Maxim; don't sit there like an owl." And again, caressingly: "Now, confess, what's your trouble? Why did you lose your place? Was it for drunkenness, or did you steal something? A few copecks, perhaps, or a lump of sugar? You didn't do it? Of course not, Maxim, my boy; of course not."

And so she went on, consoling, encouraging me, saving my moral and physical life.

What irony, a philosopher of my imaginary magnitude solaced and comforted by an ignorant servant maid, for, let it be known, at that period of my life I was extremely busy reconstructing society and changing the political and ethical aspects of the world, being at the same time firmly convinced that the future belonged to me and that I was preparing for a great historical role.

For a while it seemed like a dream, but the raindrops gliding down my neck told another story. The wind, too, had come up again, howling and wailing and rocking the boat and kicking it with invisible great boots, and we both trembled with the cold.

But she continued speaking-spoke only as a woman can! Under the influence of her naïve and consoling words I felt something burst within me the icy crust of egotism that held my heart in bondage. Then I could cry and my tears washed away much stored-up anger, a great amount of stupidity, sorrow and vaingloriousness.

Natascha spoke again:

Stop crying, dearest

coming, the Holy Mother

believe me, better days are

loves youth, and I will pray

to her on your behalf; yes, I will. You will get another job, you will want a suit costing fifteen, nay, twenty rubles, and high boots. You will be happy."

And then she kissed me

lips I ever received.

the first kiss from girlish

And as I was dozing away I heard her say: "All will be well-will be well, for God and the Holy Mother are with you— Maxim."

In the morning the sun rose brighter and more glori

ous than usual at that season of the year, and Natascha and I said good-by, never to meet again.- Translation of C. ALEXANdroff.

OSSE, EDMUND WILLIAM, an English poet and critic; born at London, September 21, 1849. In 1867 he was appointed an Assistant Librarian in the British Museum, and in 1875 translator to the Board of Trade. In 1872 and 1874 he visited Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, and in 1877 Holland, for the purpose of studying the literature of those countries. He is the author of Madrigals, Songs and Sonnets (1870); On Viol and Flute (1873); King Erik, a tragedy (1876); The Unknown Lover (1878); New Poems (1879); Studies in Northern Literature (1879); Life of Gray (1882); From Shakespeare to Pope; Seventeenth Century Studies, critical essays on Literature; Firdausi in Exile, and Other Poems, and Raleigh, in the "English Men of Letters" series (1886); A Life of Congreve (1888); History of Eighteenth Century Literature (1889); Gossip in a Library (1891); The Secret of Narcisse, romance (1892); Questions at Issue, essays (1893); The Jacobean Poets (1894); In Russet and Silver, poems (1894); Collected Poems (1896). He also contributed numerous essays to Ward's English Poets" (1880-81).

CHARACTER OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

In character Andersen was one of the most blameless of human creatures. A certain irritability of manner