nquire if
the student Haldin ever received any correspondence at the University
and took them away.

"My two last letters," she said.

We faced each other. A few snow-flakes fluttered under the naked boughs.
The sky was dark.

"What do you think could have happened?" I asked.

Her shoulders moved slightly.

"One can never tell--in Russia."

I saw then the shadow of autocracy lying upon Russian lives in their
submission or their revolt. I saw it touch her handsome open face
nestled in a fur collar and darken her clear eyes that shone upon me
brilliantly grey in the murky light of a beclouded, inclement afternoon.

"Let us move on," she said. "It is cold standing--to-day."

She shuddered a little and stamped her little feet. We moved briskly to
the end of the alley and back to the great gates of the garden.

"Have you told your mother?" I ventured to ask.

"No. Not yet. I came out to walk off the impression of this letter."

I heard a rustle of paper somewhere. It came from her muff. She had the
letter with her in there.

"What is it that you are afraid of?" I asked.

To us Europeans of the West, all ideas of political plots and
conspiracies seem childish, crude inventions for the theatre or a novel.
I did not like to be more definite in my inquiry.

"For us--for my mother specially, what I am afraid of is incertitude.
People do disappear. Yes, they do disappear. I leave you to imagine what
it is--the cruelty of the dumb weeks--months--years! This friend of ours
has abandoned his inquiries when he heard of the police getting hold of
the letters. I suppose he was afraid of compromising himself. He has a
wife and children--and why should he, after all.... Moreover, he is
without influential connections and not rich. What could he do?...
Yes, I am afraid of silence--for my poor mother. She won't be able
to bear it. For my brother I am afraid of..." she became almost
indistinct, "of anything."

We were now near the gate opposite the theatre. She raised her voice.

"But lost people do turn up even in Russia. Do you know what my last
hope is? Perhaps the next thing we know, we shall see him walking into
our rooms."

I raised my hat and she passed out of the gardens, graceful and strong,
after a slight movement of the head to me, her hands in the muff,
crumpling the cruel Petersburg letter.

On returning home I opened the newspaper I receive from London, and
glancing down the correspondence from Russia--no