fireside in the privileged idleness of lovers, sometimes at
home, sometimes in the Cottage parlour; and Ivan would tell of the
Russian Reka Dom, and of all the winter beauties and pleasures of that
other river which was for months a frozen highway, with gay sleighs
flying, jingling over the snow roads, and peasants wrapped in
sheepskin crossing from the country to market in the town. How dogs
and children rolled together in snow so dry from intense cold that it
hardly wet them more than sand. And how the river closed, and when it
opened, with all the local traditions connected with these events; and
of the stratagems resorted to to keep Jack Frost out of the houses,
and of the stores laid up against the siege of the Winter King.

"But through the most interesting of his narratives Fatima's hands
were never idle. She seemed to have concentrated all her love for me
into those beautiful taper fingers, which laboured ceaselessly in
exquisite needlework on my wedding clothes.

"And when the lilies of the valley were next in blossom, Ivan and I
were married.

"The blue-stoned ring was cut down to fit my finger, and was, by my
desire, my betrothal ring, and I gave Ivan another instead of it.
Inside his was engraven the inscription we had cut upon his tombstone
at Reka Dom,--

"'TO IVAN.'"

It was a long story, and Nurse had been waiting some little time in
the old lady's kitchen when it came to an end.

"And is Ivan--?" Ida hesitatingly began.

"Dead. Many years since, my child," said the little old lady; "you
need not be afraid to speak of him, my dear. All that is past. We used
to hope that we should neither of us long outlive the other, but God
willed it otherwise. It was very bitter at first, but it is different
now. The days and hours that once seemed to widen our separation are
now fast bringing us together again."

"Was he about papa's age when he died?" Ida gently asked.

"He was older than your father can have been, my love, I think. He was
a more than middle-aged man. He died of fever. It was in London, but
in his delirium he fancied that the river was running by the windows,
and when I bathed his head he believed that the cooling drops were
from the waters of his old home.'

"Didn't he know you?" Ida asked, with sudden sympathy.

"He knew the touch of my hands always, my dear. It was my greatest
comfort. That, and the short time of perfect reason before he sank to
rest. We had been married thirty year