y run of things, my word! To
live as everyone else does. We shall be all right. Koupriane and I have
arranged the matter. Koupriane is less sure of his men, after all,
than I am of my servants. You understand me. I do not need to explain
further. You will go home to bed--and we will all sleep. Those are the
orders. Besides, you must remember that the guard-post is only a step
from here, at the corner of the road, and we have only to give a signal
to bring them all here. But--more secret agents or special police--no,
no! Good-night. All of us to bed now!"

They did not insist further. When Feodor had said, "Those are the
orders," there was room for nothing more, not even in the way of polite
insistence.

But before going to their beds all went into the veranda, where
liqueurs were served by the brave Ermolai, as always. Matrena pushed
the wheel-chair of the general there, and he kept repeating, "No, no. No
more such people. No more police. They only bring trouble."

"Feodor! Feodor!" sighed Matrena, whose anxiety deepened in spite of all
she could do, "they watched over your dear life."

"Life is dear to me only because of you, Matrena Petrovna."

"And not at all because of me, papa?" said Natacha.

"Oh, Natacha!"

He took both her hands in his. It was an affecting glimpse of family
intimacy.

From time to time, while Ermolai poured the liqueurs, Feodor struck his
band on the coverings over his leg.

"It gets better," said he. "It gets better."

Then melancholy showed in his rugged face, and he watched night deepen
over the isles, the golden night of St. Petersburg. It was not quite yet
the time of year for what they call the golden nights there, the "white
nights," nights which never deepen to darkness, but they were already
beautiful in their soft clarity, caressed, here by the Gulf of Finland,
almost at the same time by the last and the first rays of the sun, by
twilight and dawn.

From the height of the veranda one of the most beautiful bits of the
isles lay in view, and the hour was so lovely that its charm thrilled
these people, of whom several, as Thaddeus, were still close to nature.
It was he, first, who called to Natacha:

"Natacha! Natacha! Sing us your 'Soir des Iles.'"

Natacha's voice floated out upon the peace of the islands under the
dim arched sky, light and clear as a night rose, and the guzla of Boris
accompanied it. Natacha sang:

"This is the night of the Isles--at the north of the