Welcome news to the cold and hungry Wilfrid. Gora should be his stopping-place for the night. Fifteen minutes more and they reached the silent, sleeping village, which, like most of its kind in Russia, consisted merely of a line of wooden cabins on each side of the post-road with a row of trees in front. At one end of the village stood its only house of entertainment, the Inn of the Silver Birch—an inn very different externally from the generality of its class. As a matter of fact, it had originally been the seat of a rich boyar, the lord of the village and of the surrounding land. It was a large and handsome structure of timber, pillared and balconied, and with much carving about its eaves and gables. On three sides grew lofty birch trees with silvery bark; the fourth side lay open to the gaze of the travellers. “This is the twentieth inn I’ve seen painted red,” remarked Wilfrid. “’Tis the will of the Czar,” answered the yamchik. “Some weeks ago he gave a ball, and to it came a lady wearing a red dress. ‘What a pretty colour!’ said Paul. And lo! at once a law that all post-houses and bridges shall be painted red. Great is the word of the Czar! He wills, and—pouf! ’tis done.” “A pity he doesn’t will a spell of warm weather, then,” growled Wilfrid, as he set his half-frozen feet upon the hard ground. As was the village, so was the inn, still and silent as the tomb. Wilfrid’s summons, however, soon brought to the door the landlord, a somewhat melancholy-looking man. He was accompanied by a tall and pretty girl of about eighteen, sufficiently like him to be recognizable as his daughter. Though wrapped in sheepskins they shivered as the keen, icy air from without, chilling the warmer air within, produced an instant fall of sleet, a phenomenon which, familiar enough to the four, was witnessed without surprise. Now as the girl caught sight of Wilfrid there came into her eyes a sudden light. It was not the light of recognition, for she could never previously have seen Wilfrid, but it was a look that seemed to say she had been expecting him, and was glad he had come. Such at least was the impression that Wilfrid derived from her odd manner. Turning from her to the landlord Wilfrid requested accommodation for the night, but at this the landlord put on a lugubrious look of refusal, explaining that it was neither for lack of room nor of victuals that he was compelled to turn the little father away, but the fact was the whole inn had been hired for the night by a small party, now fast asleep, whose grandeur was such that they had insisted that no other traveller should be received, lest the noise, however light, which must necessarily accompany his presence, should disturb their slumbers. “Did they look under their pillow for a rose-leaf?” asked Wilfrid.