ays this is more difficult to find than a suitable nurse."

"It is quite true," said the countess, present at this family council,
which had taken place on an average thrice a week for the last four or
five months; "but, Serge, now that I think of it, we have Mavra! the
sweetest, quietest, most devoted of nurse-tenders!"

"Mavra! the very thing. How is it we never thought of her before? She
is not trained, for she is unmarried, but she is very active and
intelligent!"

The manager was written to, ordering him to send on Mavra by the
convoy which every year about this period brought to St. Petersburg
fruits, preserves, salt, provisions, linen, and, in short, all the
products of the earth. The young girl once more packed her clothes up
in her little basket, and took her seat on one of the long file of
heavy wagons that slowly rolled along the roads for eight or nine
days, sleeping at night under the linen awning drawn over the chests
of preserves, while the horses were in the stables, and the wagoners
by their sides. Sometimes on awaking she saw the stars, but they no
longer brought tears to her eyes.

When the convoy of provisions arrived, and Mavra, still dizzy, had
made the necessary change in her dress, she was led into the room of
the young countess, where the whole family was assembled, augmented
within the last two days by a superb newborn baby, which none of the
servants knew how to manage.

"Here you are, Mavra. Good-morning!" said the triumphant father,
taking up his son in his awkward arms, at the risk of making him roar
still louder. "You have a light hand and a gentle voice. I give you
my son to take care of."

"I humbly thank you," said the young girl, pale with joy. "I shall do
my best."

She carried the infant into an adjoining room, where she soon learned
the special care to be given to a child of noble race, which was as
different from its cradle from that of little peasants, his brothers
in God's sight, as he would be the rest of his life. Toward evening
the young mother, surprised at no longer hearing the music her
first-born had already had time to accustom her to, sent Serge out to
find the reason of this unusual silence. The young master entered the
large dark room where Mavra was slowly pacing up and down, the
child's cheek pressed against hers, warming it with her warm breath
and the love of a heart henceforth happy.

She was singing a peasant lullaby in a low voice, inventing words to