ressing, and demanded the basin
and pitcher. "Some one else wants them!" she shouted through the door.
We had discovered her to be a person of so much decision of character,
in the course of our dealings with her on the preceding day, that we
were too wary to admit her, lest she should simply capture the utensils
and march off with them. As I was the heaviest of the party, it fell to
my lot to brace myself against the unfastened door and parley with her.
Three times that woman returned to the attack; thrice we refused to
surrender our hard-won trophies, and asked her pointedly, "What do you
do for materials when the house is full, pray?" Afterwards, while we
were drinking our coffee on the delightful half-covered veranda below,
which had stuffed seats running round the walls, and a flower-crowned
circular divan in the centre, a lively testimony to the dryness of the
atmosphere, we learned that the person who had wanted the basin and
pitcher was the man of our party. He begged us not to inquire into the
mysteries of his toilet, and refused to help us solve the riddle of the
guests' cleanliness when the hotel was full. I assume, on reflection,
however, that they were expected to take Russian or plain baths every
two or three days, to rid themselves of the odor of the kumys, which
exudes copiously through the pores of the skin and scents the garments.
On other days a "lick and a promise" were supposed to suffice, so that
their journals must have resembled that of the man who wrote: "Monday,
washed myself. Tuesday, washed hands and face. Wednesday, washed hands
only." That explanation is not wholly satisfactory, either, because the
Russians are clean people.

As coffee is one of the articles of food which are forbidden to kumys
patients, though they may drink tea without lemon or milk, we had
difficulty in getting it at all. It was long in coming; bad and
high-priced when it did make its appearance. As we were waiting, an
invalid lady and the novice nun who was in attendance upon her began to
sing in a room near by. They had no instrument. What it was that they
sang, I do not know. It was gentle as a breath, melting as a sigh, soft
and slow like a conventional chant, and sweet as the songs of the
Russian Church or of the angels. There are not many strains in this
world upon which one hangs entranced, in breathless eagerness, and the
memory of which haunts one ever after. But this song was one of that
sort, and it lingers in