It is as if one were back in Siberia. The Buriat’s Siberian wife, in shawl and kerchief, is busy at the whitewashed oven. Brilliantly-colored comic prints detail the misadventures of the young recruit, with doggerel ballad rhymes beneath. Chickens peck beneath the stove, the samovar hums on the table, and figures sipping tea are grouped around it on the benches, or are lying on the floor enjoying the genial warmth. “Hail, Alexsimevich!” comes a voice; and a tall bearded Siberian, dressed in a Mongol robe, rises. “Aha, Vladimir Vassilivich!” answers our interpreter. “Good-day!” A volley of questions at once overwhelms him. The party has been long away from Kiahta, and we have the latest news. “A Kiahta merchant, my friend, and his son,” Alexsimevich explains. Overcoats are being doffed, mufflers unwound, and boots kicked off. The babble of talk continues. A place is made for us at the table, and glasses of tea, with immense slices of cheese and ham, are placed before us. When more tea and cigarettes have completed the repast, Alexsimevich paces up and down, relating with dramatic gestures the latest gossip from Troitzkosavsk. In the midst of his narrative, which all are following with great interest, there comes an incident of heightened vividness. “Sh--sh!” a warning signal sounds. One of the auditors points to a shape rolled in blankets, and lying on the bench. “_Gaspaja_” (a lady), they say. Alexsimevich completes his tale in a lower tone and with more artistic circumlocution. But it is the other side’s turn to tell a tale, for why, in the ferocious cold of midwinter, with--save for this one Buriat’s house--the Mongol huts only for nightly shelter, why does a lady come down here? The merchant explains: “She has twisted her knee-joint, and in Irkutsk, in Tomsk even, the Christian doctors cannot heal her. A lama tells us that warm sulphur-water will soften the sinews, and the bone can be brought back into place. We go to the warm springs of the Holy River. I have been there in old times, and I know the way.” With pathetic eagerness the party has gone to do the lama’s bidding, and bathe in the Mongol Jordan. Evening comes. The lady’s bench is pulled over close to the oven. The merchant and his son lie down beside it on the floor. Servants and drivers roll up at their feet, and all sleep, in amity. It takes resolution to awake at daybreak and leave the luxury of this shelter. But when horses are harnessed, riders must ride. The rising sun comes up over the white plain. The Buriat waves “good-bye” from his doorstep; the dog barks in farewell, and we lumber on southward. A sugar-loaf hill marks the end of the valley. We turn up now into the mountains, the driver somewhat in doubt as to the way. A boy of about fifteen years, a yellow-robed lama novice, rides by. Alexsimevich hails him to ask the road to Urga. A complicated explanation follows, hardly understood. “I show you,” says the boy.