One more day of horror had ended for Russia. At this hour once the lamps along the Neva would have been lighted, the laughter of sleigh-riders would have resounded over the snow. But now the streets were dark—deserted save by some wandering homeless people, seeking refuge in the night.

No one seemed to know exactly what had happened—or the cause—

There was no ruler—no order—

Darkness and chaos.

A girl, perhaps of twelve, sat huddled in a ragged shawl on the steps of a closed church.

There had been a time when a fire burned—

A mother—a father—

Brothers—

They had gone—no one knew where. The mother was royalist.

She used to sew for a great lady—a Princess.

Perhaps the jailers of a prison could tell where she was.

Once—in the life that was only a memory—was it real—or was the biting cold—was the hunger what had always been—her mother had taken her to the house of the great lady—

Her eyes had opened in childish wonder, as the Princess took her from room to room.

On a great couch of palest blue, among cushions that were all lace and blue and pink—a muff.

It had been carelessly thrown down—she had loved it.

Her greatest desire had been to touch it—to feel the soft gray fur on her face.

A piercing wind blew from the frozen river—the muff—if it would come it would keep her warm—

She would put her hand in it and hold it to her heart.

Through half-closed lids she saw the muff—curving and swaying in the air—like a gray bird.

It was looking for her—there were so many freezing children in the streets—she was small for her age—

How warm—how kind of the Princess to send the muff.

Maybe mother will soon be home from work—we can have supper—

Boris will come from school—

But Boris lay dying—prisoner in the enemy's land.

When a pale sun struggled to shine down on the dirty streets—on the confusion and sorrow of that Russian city—an old Priest—dying with all the rest—of sorrow for his land—found the frozen body of a little girl—with hands clasped over her heart—a faint smile on her upturned face.