The terrible war of 1812 was over, and Russia had shaken herself free of the last Frenchman. Already the Tsar Alexander had taken in hand preparations for the terrible vengeance which was to be exacted from his arch-enemy. Moscow was being rapidly rebuilt; the Russian workman, equipped with axe alone, is able to do wonders in the matter of building up a structure of wooden beams. In front of the Senate house was already beginning to accumulate that immense collection of cannon captured from or abandoned by the Grand Army, which may still be seen by visitors to the Kremlin. Of these nearly 370 are French, 190 Austrian, 120 Prussian, 50 from the German States, over 100 Italian and some 35 to 40 Spanish, Dutch and Polish; over 800 items of evidence to the anguish of the great retreat. The prevailing sense throughout Russia was that of profound devotional gratitude to the God of Battles, not unmingled with a feeling of jubilant pride in the nation's prowess, and of passionate affection for the Tsar Alexander himself, whose courage and wisdom had shown themselves pre-eminent qualities from first to last, and of respect and admiration for those of his Generals, and for Count Rostopchin, Governor of Moscow, who had distinguished themselves in the defence of their beloved country. Alexander himself was undoubtedly the hero of the hour. At the annual reception of the cadet corps in St. Petersburg, a function to which the reader of this history has been introduced on a former occasion, his advent was awaited with the greatest excitement. A laurel crown was to be laid at his feet by a deputation of beautiful women, of whom Vera was one. "Bozhé Tsaryá Chranee," the National Anthem, was to be sung by cadets and guests, as it had never been sung before; all the world was on the tiptoe of expectation. Vera moved across the room, supporting upon her arm a limping, decrepit-looking figure, one of many who limped among the august company present that day. Old Countess Maximof sat and watched them. She nudged her nearest neighbour, a motherly old person dressed in gorgeous attire. "See them--are they not a lovely pair?" she said. "It has taken me some time to forgive Vera the impropriety of remaining in Moscow throughout the trouble, but she has been so good to my Sasha that who could have held out for ever?" The other gazed at Vera through her double eyeglasses. "Hah! remaining in Moscow! Many unkind things were said of her upon that account, I remember. She had friends among the French officers--old acquaintances in Paris--that was the chief indictment. That will all be forgiven and forgotten. Yes, she is beautiful. Your son might have done worse!" Vera and Sasha talked and laughed together, they appeared to be radiantly happy. "It is only four years ago that we met here," Vera whispered, "and at that time you were still a victim to the follies of cadetdom--do you remember how----" "Shall I never be forgiven that expression?" Sasha laughed.