As he handed me the piece of paper, with an expression of earnest thanks, I noticed that he wore a glove upon his right hand, and commented mentally that it was a rather unusual custom to wear one glove while in the house. A few moments after he had rung the bell, Prascovie returned, followed by the servant, bearing a steaming _samovar_. "You've not been very long over your business," she remarked, glancing at me with a smile. "Now it's all over, let's talk." I was nothing loth to do this, and she and I resumed our chat. Then Souvaroff related the story of his imprisonment, his transportation to Siberia, his work in the Kara silver mines, and his subsequent escape and journey to England, where he had been joined by his daughter. Some English people thought, said he, that Russia was not prepared for the freedom the Narodnoe Pravo would like to see it possess; but he assured me that the time for autocracy was past, that the Tzar's Empire had outgrown the period of benevolent despotism, and that the Russian people were quite capable of governing themselves. When he had described some of the exciting adventures connected with his escape, Prascovie, who had handed me some tea and lemon, seated herself at the piano and sang an old Russian love-song in a sweet contralto, full of harmony and tenderness. In the meantime, her father had left us, and when she had finished, she turned upon the music-stool, and with few forewords inquired the nature of Souvaroff's business with me. Of course, I was compelled to refuse to satisfy her curiosity, and at my request she returned to the instrument and commenced another song. As she sang the second verse, there mingled with the music sounds of loud talking, boisterous laughter, and greetings in Russian, which proceeded from the hall. Evidently some one had arrived, and was being welcomed by my host. Prascovie heard it, and ceased playing. For a moment she sat in an attentive attitude. I noticed her face wore an expression of intense anxiety and that the colour had fled from her cheeks. A few moments later I distinguished the voice of the servant answering her master, and after some further conversation a man exclaimed-- "_Dobroi notsche_, Souvaroff." ["Good-night."] To this the man addressed replied in a cheery tone, the front door slammed, and my host returned into the room. As he entered, he uttered some words in Polish _patois_ to his daughter. It must have been some announcement of a startling character, for, uttering an ejaculation of alarm, she reeled and almost fell. In a moment, however, she had recovered herself, and sank into an armchair in a grave, dejected attitude. All the light had left her face, and with her chin resting upon her breast she gazed down in thoughtful silence upon the rosettes on her little morocco slippers.