short notice; and it sent us on our way with lightened hearts. And does not the thought that Henri is at Tobolsk help to break the sense of separation?"
"Really it does: compared with Paris, or even with St. Petersburg, Tobolsk seems close at hand."
"How well he is getting on there, too," said Ivan. "In a year or two, God willing, he may settle near us in Moscow or in St. Petersburg; and our dear mother can then divide her time between her son and daughter."
"What a happy dream!" said Clémence. "And yet not a dream, but a sober, practicable plan, a hope that may soon be realized. How good God is to us, Ivan!"
A handsome boy of eight or nine bounded into the room, his fair hair streaming over his fur jacket, and his bright face glowing with exercise and excitement. "Softly—softly, my boy," said his father.
"Papinka, they are coming!—they are coming!" he shouted, confident that the importance of his tidings justified any amount of haste and clamour in their delivery.
"Who are coming, my dear boy?"
"Sledges, papinka, sledges! Three of them!" he cried breathlessly. "From the south!"
"Do not let us be too sure," Ivan said quickly to Clémence. "They may be only, after all, from some neighbouring settlement."
"They are from the south, papinka," the boy repeated. "They have signal-flags. Matvei saw them in the moonlight, quite plainly."
"I must see them too," said Ivan, hastily putting on his furs again.
It was true. Their long isolation was over. Tidings and letters and friends from the outer world had reached them at last. Much more and better—Clémence sprang forward with a cry of joy as a rough, sealskin-coated figure entered the room.
