The two girls heaved a deep sigh of relief into the air, weighted with these significant words. "You are laying cruel waste in these two hearts," whispered Zeneida in Pushkin's ear. "You had better go back to your work." "And you have not brought me the presents you promised?" asked Bethsaba, sorrowfully. "I had not forgotten them; but from early morning we were busy trying to make fast the wreck; there must have been some one on board cutting through our ropes as fast as we threw them. And so I had no time to think of saving little children." "When next you make a promise do not forget it," returned she, in tone of aggrieved reproach. Pushkin could not understand her. Why that tone? How should he understand it? He promised to come again that evening to bring her good news, and something besides. Neither she nor Zeneida had told him who the other girl was. Zeneida now took both girls into her boudoir. The time was approaching when she would be receiving many visitors whom it was not expedient for them to see. The catastrophe offered favorable opportunity to the "Szojusz Blagadenztoiga" to hold uninterrupted sittings. There was to be a meeting of "the green book" to-day. The two girls managed to find a "green book" for themselves. They searched about in Zeneida's boudoir until they found Pushkin's poem, _The Gypsy Girl_. This, of course, they had not read before; for, according to the dictum of "good" society in Russia, a well-bred girl up to her fifteenth year may indeed see, but not read, romances. Moreover, that poem was not to be had in print, only manuscript. Alexander Pushkin had created quite a distinct calling which had never existed before, that of transcriber. In every town were men who made a livelihood by copying out Pushkin's verses, sold, despite the Censor, by the booksellers. (There are still many houses in which only written copies of the works of the Russian poet Petösy are to be found.) The two girls now eagerly snatched at the forbidden fruit. First Bethsaba read it to Sophie; then Sophie to Bethsaba. The third time they read it together as a duet. Then they conferred the name of its hero, "Aleko," upon the author. And when they wanted to speak of him called him only "Aleko." And it fitted--only the other way about. Aleko had wandered among the gypsies (gypsy, poet, or bohemian being synonymous); this gypsy or poet had wandered among princesses. That evening Herr Aleko came, bringing cheering news. The storm had subsided, and the water had fallen a span; although it must be some time before it resumed its proper level, for it stretched away eight versts on either bank. ("Oh that it may last ever so long!" beat the heart of each maiden, secretly.)