ot know.' She shook her fair, bright head, and answered, 'Nay,
madam, there is no strangers' cupboard for forlorn wayfarers, and there
must be one, full of food, and wine, and physic, and sweet,
health-restoring cordials. And the birdies must have a breakfast daily.
Dorothy, the cookmaid, must boil bread in skimmed milk, and throw it on
the lawn; then Master Robin and Master Thrush and Mistress Jenny Wren
will all feast together. I once saw the little princes, in King Edward's
time, feed the birdies thus; and so did Willie Shakespeare, in Stratford
town.' Alas, I thought, alas, all is _now too_ plain. This child must
have been akin to some great scholar, who taught her his own lore, and
too much learning hath assuredly made her mad; but I will humour her,
and then will try to bring her poor wits home. Thus reasoning, I placed
her by my side, and cast my arms around her, and then I whispered, 'Tell
me of thyself.' 'That will I,' she replied. 'I am Peace, and I come both
in storms and after them. I came to Joan the Maid, on her stone scaffold
in the Market Place of Rouen. I came to Rachel Russel when she sustained
her husband's courage. I came to Mere Toinette, the brown-faced peasant
woman, when she denied herself for her children. I came to Gaffer and
Grannie Cressidge as they smiled at each other when eating the apples
and bread. And I came to a man named Bunyan in his prison, and lo! he
wrote of _me_. Now I have come to you.' 'Yea, to stay with me,' I said,
but she answered not, she only kissed my hand, and on the morrow, when
the wintry sunlight shone on all things within the manor house, it did
_not_ shine upon her golden head! Her little bed was empty, so was her
little chair; but the place she had filled in my heart was _still_
filled, and so I think it will be for ever! Some there are who call her
a Good Fay or Fairy, and some there are who call her by another and
sweeter name, but I think of her always as Little Peace, the hope giver,
who came to teach me when my eyes were dim with grief. For no one can
tell in what form a blessing will cross his threshold and dwell beside
him as his helper, friend, and guest."

THE STORY OF WASSILI AND DARIA.

_A RUSSIAN STORY._

BY ROBERT GUILLEMARD.

Whilst staying in Siberia, on one occasion, when returning from an
evening walk in the woods I was surprised at seeing a young Russian girl
crying beside a clump of trees; she seemed pretty, and I approached; she
saw