long, lingering, memory-fraught look—and when we in our turn move sadly away and our eyes meet, I see that my companion's are wet with tears. Poor, brave, noble Zoiloff, lying in that far away lonely grave!
In the other picture Spernow and I are again among the chief figures, but not alone now. Nathalie is by his side, Christina by mine. Again there is the same priest and the same choir, but we stand in the lofty chancel of a stately church, and the words are not of death but of marriage. Around us a small group is gathered, well-wishers, relatives, and friends, with faces bright with gladness and tongues eager to burst out with noisy congratulations and fervent wishes for our happiness. And when the blessing has been given, and we lead our brides down the aisle, the mighty building resounds with the pealing notes of the organ, and we leave the church through groups of curiously garbed men and women.
And at that point my reverie is broken by sounds of children's prattle. I look out on to the sunlit lawn to where Christina is kneeling and listening with a smile to the cheery chatter of our two children. All is warmth, peace, love, and rest in my English life now; and, as I glance at my dear ones, I thank Heaven with fervent gratitude that they are not destined to aspire to the dangerous splendour and evanescent glory of a minor Throne. I get up quietly, and stepping through the window into the sunlight, am hailed with a cry and rush of delight from my little darlings and a welcome of love light from the eyes of my beautiful wife.
THE END.
