pered, which made me wretched and ashamed; for they spoke my own weakness so clearly, and showed so plainly that I could not trust my own motives. These were the words which I heard:—
"You must accept Chilton Thurber, or George will despise you for being fickle."
What was it to me, if George did think me fickle? So I asked myself many times. But in spite of my common sense, the words were echoed over and over in my mind.
February 26, 18—.
The carnival is over, and Lent has begun. The last palace-ball was given Sunday evening, and that ended the festivities of the season; so we have settled down to a comparatively quiet life.
The moujiks' carnival was a serious affair, as it was impossible to get any work done while it lasted. On the Champs de Mars a number of temporary theatres and booths were erected, and the crowd was dense during the entire week,—men in their sheepskins, and women with bright handkerchiefs tied under their chins, all so happy and good-tempered! The performances in the theatres went on all day, and nearly all night. Flaming pictures of Russians and Turks in mortal combat, gunboats blowing up, and blazing artillery, ornamented the outside of these structures.
Among the theatres were dozens of merry-go-rounds, each having its own particular style of music; and as they were near together, the effect was something
