“It is not much that we can do,” answered Steinmetz, taking the small outstretched hand within his large soft grasp; “but that little you may always count upon.”

“I know,” she said gravely.

She looked up at him, expecting him to step aside and allow her to pass into the cottage; but Steinmetz stood quite still, looking down at her with his pleasant smile.

“And how is it with you?” he asked, speaking in German, as they always did together.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh!” she answered indifferently, “I am well, of course.  I always am.  I have the strength of a horse.  Of course I have been troubled about these poor people.  It has been terrible.  They are worse than children.  I cannot quite understand why God afflicts them so.  They have never done any harm.  They are not like the Jews.  It seems unjust.  I have been very busy, in my small way.  My mother, you know, does not take much interest in things that are not clean.”

“Madame the Countess reads French novels and the fictional productions of some modern English ladies,” suggested Steinmetz quietly.

“Yes; but she objects to honest dirt,” said Catrina coldly.  “May I go in?”

Steinmetz did not move.

“I think not.  This Moscow man is eccentric.  He likes to do good sub rosa.  He prefers to be alone.”

Catrina tried to look into the cottage; but Karl Steinmetz, as we know, was fat, and filled up the whole door-way.

“I should like to thank him for coming to us, or, at least, to offer him hospitality.  I suppose one cannot pay him.”

“No; one cannot pay him,” answered Steinmetz gravely.

There was a little pause.  From the interior of the cottage came the murmured gratitude of the peasants, broken at times by a wail of agony—­the wail of a man.  It is not a pleasant sound to hear.  Catrina heard it, and it twisted her plain, strong face in a sudden spasm of sympathy.

Again she made an impatient little movement.

“Let me go in,” she urged.  “I may be able to help.”

Steinmetz shook his head.

“Better not!” he said.  “Besides, your life is too precious to these poor people to run unnecessary risks.”

She gave a strange, bitter laugh.

“And what about you?” she said.  “And Paul?”

“You never hear of Paul going into any of the cottages,” snapped
Steinmetz sharply.  “For me it is different.  You have never heard that of
Paul.”

“No,” she answered slowly; “and it is quite right.  His life—­it is different for him.  How—­how is Paul?”

“He is well, thank you.”

Steinmetz glanced down at her.  She was looking across the plains beyond the boundless pine forests that lay between Thors and the Volga.

“Quite well,” he went on, kindly enough.  “He hopes to ride over and pay his respects to the countess to-morrow or the next day.”