Afterward they all three had tea and spoke very amiably, and a good and peaceful feeling filled their hearts. Xenia Pavlovna changed her evening dress for a white capote with sleeves resembling wings, and let down her hair. She visited the nursery several times, and, sinking on her knees before the three little beds, she gazed with a mother’s passion and tenderness at the sleeping babies with their full, chubby little arms and sweet, carefree faces, and it seemed to her that here were sleeping the little angels, pure, gentle, helpless, and great in their purity, that had carried Marguerite into heaven. “You look like Marguerite in prison,” remarked her husband, leaning on his arm and gazing at his wife long and attentively, and it seemed to him as if a whole chapter of his life had disappeared and before him was a sweet, young maiden with golden hair, whom one longed to love, to adore forever. And under this glance Xenia Pavlovna lowered her eyes, smiled, and felt that somewhere far down at the very bottom of her soul the broken, unfinished song of her youthful heart sounded like a mountain echo. Iván Mikhailovich who, generally supping at home in his shirt-sleeves, now felt constrained to take off his coat, endeavored to lend to his gestures and motions as much elegance and grace as possible, and was amiable and courteous at table, even to his mother-in-law. “Shall I hand you the butter?” he asked, anticipating her wish. “You are acting just as if you had come on a visit,” Maria Petrovna remarked, and, taking the butter with a pleasant smile, said: “Merci!” “Well, good night, my Marguerite!” said Iván Mikhailovich, approaching his wife and once more gazing attentively into her eyes; then he kissed her hand and cheek. “Good night, my Faust!” jokingly replied Xenia Pavlovna, kissing her husband on the lips. Then Iván Mikhailovich pressed Maria Petrovna’s hand and went into the bedroom. The blue hanging-lamp flooded the chamber with a soft, tender, soothing, bluish light, and it was so peaceful and cozy. Iván Mikhailovich undressed, and, taking off his boots, still continued to sing from “Faust” in a tender falsetto: “’Tis life alone to be near thee, Thine only, all thine own!” THE DUEL BY NIKOLAI DMITRIEVITCH TELESHOV [Illustration] _Teleshov was born in 1867 and studied at the Moscow Academy of Applied Sciences. He started on his literary career in 1884 and met with almost immediate recognition._ _In his choice of subjects, as well as in the strong objective way in which he treats them, Teleshov is a disciple of Anton Chekhov, and his affinity with that great artist has been pointed out by the foremost Russian critics._