awoke this morning, my first movement was to peep out of the window. A flat, snowy country met my eyes, and a gray sky. The day has been monotonous. Tom has spent his time poring over a Russian Grammar. He knit his brows, made various notes in a new memorandum-book, and appeared to be studying intently; but when, towards night, I catechised him, I could not discover that his knowledge went beyond the fact that "Da" meant "Yes," and "Nyett" was Russian for "No."
It was five o'clock this afternoon when we reached the Russian frontier. Our advent had been telegraphed from Berlin by some one whom Tom knows there, and we received every attention. A polite official conducted us to the restaurant, where we had supper. The excellent French which he spoke did not surprise me. I have always had a vague idea that Russians used their own language very little, and that one could travel throughout the country simply with a knowledge of French.
The waiter, however, did not understand my French orders, and Gustave's powers as interpreter were called into play. Our travelling companions wore long, dark cloaks, and fur hats. That was as it should be. But the mild air was all wrong, and the thermometer was wrong too. It should be colder in Russia.
Grace and I uttered an exclamation of horror when we entered the compartment which had been reserved for us in the Russian train; for, in spite of the mild temperature outside, the little stove was nearly bursting
