"It never reached us. Nothing but news of your death. I was Serge Palma. She was supposed to be my wife. Of her distress at finding me there instead of you, I need not tell you. She lived in my house with Madame Roskova, the wife of Dr. Feodor Roskof, who is at Yakutsk. I held myself aloof from her till she deemed me cold and hard. I did not tell her Barenin's news for three months after I had heard it, leaving her still the hope of your being alive. But the hope died, and she was in sore distress. When Ostrog came, saying he had seen you lying dead in the grass with a bullet through the head, we had no further hope of seeing you again. Before God, we believed you dead. My love for her was what it always had been. Before God, I would have died sooner than speak had I believed you still alive. You must believe me, Palma. She was in great distress and loneliness, and I loved her. She put me off for many months, still hoping against hope. And then----at last----we wedded----" They had come to a stand long since and stood facing one another. At the word, Palma's fist rose and dropped expressively, and his face tightened grimly. He turned and walked on without a word, and Pavlof followed. They walked on and on. Would the carriages never come? Would Palma never speak? It seemed to Pavlof as if they might walk on so, in gloomy silence, for ever. But he had no words wherewith to break it. Of what avail words? He had struck this man over the heart, and he must have time to recover from the blow. So, on and on, in a silence that was dreadful and seemed endless. But all things come to an end, and at last they heard the carriages coming up the road behind them, and still Palma said no word of what was in him. "Palma," said Paul, "do not break her heart. She has suffered enough. She is innocent of offence in this matter, as I am also. But, if you have anything to say, say it to me, here and now." "There is nothing to say," said Serge with a groan. "It is the will of God. But it is hard to bear. She is all the world to me, Pavlof." "God help us all!" said Paul, and the tarantas drove up. They climbed silently to their places, and Hope's quick glance showed her that the story had been told. She had been very nervous as to the outcome. She was trembling now with anxiety as to what Serge would do, and how he would treat her. He took her hand in his, and bent and kissed it, not with the quick passion of the former time, but reverently, as one kisses the hand of a dead love. She burst into tears of relief and gratitude, and her fears were gone. They were on the great Eastern road now, and speech was possible. And presently, when she had recovered her composure somewhat, he bent towards her and asked very gently-- "And--the child, Hope? What of it?"