knees or leaning against them. This evening the swarm was about him, but he was not seated. On the contrary, there was a good deal of excitement going on. It was evident that a journey was to be taken, and it was Mr. Montmorency who was to take it. A brougham stood before the door, and a big portmanteau had been strapped upon it. The children were dancing about, chattering and hanging on to their father. The pretty rosy mother was standing near him, talking as if she was asking final questions. Sara paused a moment to see the little ones lifted up and kissed and the bigger ones bent over and kissed also.
"I wonder if he will stay away long," she thought.
"The portmanteau is rather big. Oh, dear, how they will miss him! I shall miss him myself—even though he does n't know I am alive."
When the door opened she moved away,—remembering the sixpence,—but she saw the traveller come out and stand against the background of the warmly lighted hall, the older children still hovering about him.
"Will Moscow be covered with snow?" said the little girl Janet. "Will there be ice everywhere?"
"Shall you drive in a drosky?" cried another. "Shall you see the Czar?"
"I will write and tell you all about it," he answered, laughing. "And I will send you pictures of muzhiks and things. Run into the house. It is a hideous damp night. I would rather stay with you than go to Moscow. Good night! Good night, duckies! God bless you!" And he ran down the steps and jumped into the brougham.
