a heap of humanity and foul clothing in a
corner.

"Does she visit the cottages?" asked Steinmetz sharply.

"She does, God be with her! She has no fear. She is an angel. Without
her we should all be dead."

"She won't visit this, if I can help it," muttered Steinmetz.

The light flickered along the road toward them. In the course of a few
minutes it fell on the stricken cottage, on the starosta standing in the
road, on Steinmetz in the door-way.

"Herr Steinmetz, is that you?" asked a voice, deep and musical, in the
darkness.

"Zum Befehl," answered Steinmetz, without moving.

Catrina came up to him. She was clad in a long dark cloak, a dark hat,
and wore no gloves. She brought with her a clean aromatic odor of
disinfectants. She carried the lantern herself, while behind her walked
a man-servant in livery, with a large basket in either hand.

"It is good of you," she said, "to come to us in our need--also to
persuade the good doctor to come with you."

"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
hospitali