most terrific winter annually renders the land unproductive for four months.  It is not our fault that the government to which we are forced to bow—­the Czar whose name lifts our hats from our heads—­it is not our fault that progress and education are taboo, and that all who endeavor to forward the cause of humanity are promptly put away in a safe place where they are at liberty to forward their own salvation and nothing else.  Nothing is our fault, mein lieber, in this country.  We have to make the best of adverse circumstances.  We are not breaking any human law, and in doing nothing we should be breaking a divine command.”

Paul flicked the ash off his cigar.  He had heard all this before.  Karl Steinmetz’s words were usually more remarkable for solid thoughtfulness than for brilliancy of conception or any great novelty of expression.

“Oh!” said Paul quietly, “I am not going to leave off.  You need not fear that.  Only I shall have to tell my wife.  Surely a woman could help us in a thousand ways.  There is such a lot that only a woman understands.”

“Yes!” grunted Steinmetz; “and only the right sort of woman.”

Paul looked up sharply.

“You must leave that to me,” he said.

“My very dear friend, I leave every thing to you.”

Paul smiled.

There was no positive proof that this was not strictly true.  There was no saying that Karl Steinmetz did not leave every thing to every-body.  But wise people thought differently.

“You don’t know Etta,” he said, half shyly.  “She is full of sympathy and pity for these people.”

Steinmetz bowed gravely.

“I have no doubt of it.”

“And yet you say that she must not be told.”

“Certainly not.  A secret is considerably strained if it be divided between two people.  Stretching it to three will probably break it.  You can tell her when you are married.  Does she consent to live in Osterno?”

“Oh, yes.  I think so.”

“Um—­m!”

“What did you say?”

“Um—­m,” repeated Steinmetz, and the conversation somewhat naturally showed signs of collapse.

At this moment the door was opened, and a servant in bright livery, with powdered wig, silk stockings, and a countenance which might have been of wood, brought in a letter on a silver tray.

Paul took the square envelope and turned it over, displaying as he did so a coronet in black and gold on the corner, like a stamp.

Karl Steinmetz saw the coronet.  He never took his quiet, unobtrusive glance from Paul’s face while he opened the letter and read it.

“A fresh difficulty,” said Paul, throwing the note across to his companion.

Steinmetz looked grave while he unfolded the thick stationery.

“Dear Paul [the letter ran]:  I hear you are at Osterno and that the Moscow doctor is in your country.  We are in great distress at Thors—­cholera, I fear.  The fame of your doctor has spread to my people, and they are clamoring for him.  Can you bring or send him over?  You know your room here is always in readiness.  Come soon with the great doctor, and also Herr Steinmetz.  In doing so you will give more than pleasure to your old friend,”