I send two officers of my staff to-day to Vladivostok to make report to the American commander that I, Shimilin, am now Ataman, and that my government shall be just. I have taken the private car of Zorogoff, and knowing that you intend to return to Vladivostok soon, perhaps you would like to travel by this wagon. It is advisable to go aboard the car, which now stands in the station yards, while the fog still holds, and be picked up by the next train. If you have any friends to go with you, the station commandant is at your orders. The Irkutsk train for Vladivostok will be here within an hour, and it will pick up one of my armored cars for safety. Perhaps you will be able to report to your superiors that all Cossacks are not robbers and that we desire only the salvation of our Russia. I salute you and America. SHIMILIN, Ataman. Peter stepped to the writing table, picked up a pen, and wrote on a slip of paper: I shall go at once. Thank you for the kindness. I hope to see the Ataman before I depart from his city. PETER GORDON, Lieutenant. The messenger bowed, clicked, and left the room, and Peter gathered his blankets and made them into a roll. Then he paused a minute, thoughtfully—and finally knocked upon the door leading to Katerin’s rooms. The old serving woman who had been at the log house opened the door just enough to peep through. “Tell your mistress that the American officer wishes to say good-by, please,” said Peter, and the door closed at once. Peter was stricken with chagrin and disappointment. He thought that Katerin might not see him and had given her orders to that effect to her servant. He had expected that the door would open for him—and it had closed upon his request to see Katerin. He stood for a moment, wondering if he should not go down to Slipitsky at once, pay his bill, and go on to the car which stood in the station yard. Then the door opened, and Katerin herself stood before him—a Katerin that he had never seen. She wore now, instead of the poor garments in which he had seen her as a samovar girl, the beautiful purple velvet gown which reached to her slippers. Her hair was high upon her head, dressed in the style of a Russian lady so that it suggested a crown—lifted from the front and turned back smoothly against the mass, and then drawn down tightly across the ears. Tall, slender, and stately she was now, such a woman as might be a princess of the blood. Hanging from her neck was a gorgeous string of pearls, and from her fingers gleamed jeweled rings. And Peter’s heart sank as his eyes rested upon her, for once again he realized with a pang that, after all, he was but Peter Petrovitch, son of a poor exile, and Katerin Stephanovna was of the Russian nobility. He saw a new barrier between them, and one which he had forgotten in his recent thoughts of her.