He had, moreover, brought something for Bethsaba--a little doll, such as he had promised her, but not a little muddy doll in rags, but a lovely, gayly dressed, sweet little doll, made of sugar. There were no others to be had; all the others had melted. Pushkin expected the girl to laugh at his offering; but she took the matter seriously, accepted it with greatest solemnity, placed it in her bosom, and it was evident that she was not sorry to see Sophie just a tiny bit jealous of her. Pushkin was not slow to see that he must be careful, so he sought in his pockets until he found something worth offering. "See, fair Sophie"--he did not know her other name--"I have something for you, too. You showed a special interest in the Czar this morning. Here is a piece of copper from the vessel that ran into the Winter Palace." Thankfully it was received. The platinum mines of the Ural had never produced so precious a piece of ore. "He can be no conspirator," whispered Sophie to Bethsaba. "Decidedly not," whispered Bethsaba back. "The storm has quite gone down," said Zeneida. "The bells have left off ringing. This will be a quieter night than those we have been having of late. Good-night, Pushkin. If you do not hurry you will find your boat running aground." The girls would not have minded if the water had not gone down so fast. Zeneida despatched Pushkin home, and the girls to their beds. She was responsible for their good health. But it was long before they could settle to sleep. They had so much to say about Aleko. They had made up quite a different ending to the poem than the real one: the gypsy girl was not to have been faithless, but if she were, Aleko should have despised her and have found a more faithful love. The gypsy girl should have implored his pardon on her knees, and he should have forgiven her, but not have driven her away from him. In a word, they made Aleko what they fain would have had him to be. Zeneida, who slept in the next room, several times admonished them to go to sleep. Then they would be quiet as mice, the next moment to begin whispering again. At last her regular breathing proved Sophie, at least, to have fallen asleep. Bethsaba could not sleep; her heart beat so violently that, despite the prayers she said, midnight found her still awake. Suddenly it seemed to her as if the occupant of the next room had risen, and with light footsteps had gone out into the room beyond. The night was still. Neither sound of carriage-wheels nor patrol disturbed the quiet of the inundated streets. From a distant apartment rose a psalm, sung in a woman's voice, low and sorrowful: "In every hour of grief and pain, To Thee for help I crave; O Thou to whom none cry in vain, Be present now to save." Who was singing at that late hour? What grief could oppress her in this house? Bethsaba drew the bedclothes over her head to quiet her trembling. * * * * *