A striking feature of the winter of Northern Russia is the glorious uncertainty of its snowfalls.  At Tver the weather-wise had said: 

“The snow has not all fallen yet.  More is coming.  It is yellow in the sky, although March is nearly gone.”

The landlord of the hotel (a good enough resting-place facing the broad Volga) had urged upon M. le Prince the advisability of waiting, as is the way of landlords all the world over.  But Etta had shown a strange restlessness, a petulant desire to hurry forward at all risks.  She hated Tver; the hotel was uncomfortable, there was an unhealthy smell about the place.

Paul acceded readily enough to her wishes.  He rather liked Tver.  In a way he was proud of this busy town—­a centre of Russian civilization.  He would have liked Etta to be favorably impressed with it, as any prejudice would naturally reflect upon Osterno, 140 miles across the steppe.  But with a characteristic silent patience he made the necessary preparations for an immediate start.

The night express from St. Petersburg had deposited them on the platform in the early morning.  Steinmetz had preceded them.  Closed sleighs from Osterno were awaiting them.  A luxurious breakfast was prepared at the hotel.  Relays of horses were posted along the road.  The journey to Osterno had been carefully planned and arranged by Steinmetz—­a king among organizers.  The sleigh drive across the steppe was to be accomplished in ten hours.

The snow had begun to fall as they clattered across the floating bridge of Tver.  It had fallen ever since, and the afternoon lowered gloomily.  In America such visitations are called “blizzards”; here in Russia it is merely “the snow.”  The freezing wind is taken as a matter of course.

At a distance of one hundred miles from Tver, the driver of the sleigh containing Etta, Maggie, and Paul had suddenly rolled off his perch.  His hands were frostbitten; a piteous blue face peered out at his master through ice-laden eyebrows, mustache, and beard.  In a moment Maggie was out in the snow beside the two men, while Etta hastily closed the door.

“He is all right,” said Paul; “it is only the cold.  Pour some brandy into his mouth while I hold the ice aside. Don’t take off your gloves.  The flask will stick to your fingers.”

Maggie obeyed with her usual breezy readiness, turning to nod reassurance to Etta, who, truth to tell, had pulled up the rime-covered windows, shutting out the whole scene.

“He must come inside,” said Maggie.  “We are nice and warm with all the hot-water cans.”

Paul looked rather dubiously toward the sleigh.

“You can carry him, I suppose?” said the girl cheerfully.  “He is not very big—­he is all fur coat.”

Etta looked rather disgusted, but made no objection, while Paul lifted the frozen man into the seat he had just vacated.

“When you are cold I will drive,” cried Maggie, as Paul shut the door.  “I should love it.”