bearing his wife's signature. He has not to wait
long for it. The widow is too happy just now,
and too naturally sweet-tempered and forgiving
at all times, to bear malice. Perhaps she is
not at heart indisposed to show this grand
Russian relative of her family to her gallant
admirer. It is very notable that the inhabitants
of the principalities have always a certain respect
for the Russians, however queerly they get
treated; so she writes upon intensely-scented
note-paper, enclosed in an envelope fastened
with armorial bearings, upon crimson and gold,
this brief welcome:
                Vien Vaux Rien.
                                         ESPAIRANCE.
Which shows that the charming and princely
widow appears to be in some uncertainty as to
the precise orthography of her own name, and
therefore may think it best to spell it and other
words upon phonetic principles somewhat in
advance of the modern state of learning. Well
or ill written, however, never were words more
welcome than these are to my prince; though,
had the honest lady known to what purpose he
would use them, she would have cheerfully
suffered half a martyrdom rather than be made a
mere decoy to cheat a worthy man who loved her.

The letter has an effect perfectly intoxicating
upon my prince, when the tall and stately
Circassian presents it with humble downcast look
and arms folded across his breast. The prince
bursts into a French couplet, and jauntily moves
towards him with brotherly familiarity. He
tells the Irishman that the Circassian is a chief
whom he, the prince, was fortunate enough to
save in the hot fight when Schamyl was captured;
and the faithful, grateful fellow has never left
him since. "But," says the prince, with a
noble glow on his handsome features, and
speaking with eloquent feeling, "we are sworn
comrades; I would trust my life in his hands,
and we share all things in common." This
gives rise to an instructive and delightful talk
about the Caucasus, where the prince has
often held high command. But before it is
ended he starts up and asks permission to put
on his fine coat again, as he is bound to dine
with his cousin. He is desolated to leave his
brave enemy, as he calls the major, in pleasant
allusion to old Crimean times; but he is very
fond of his relative; she is very fond of him,
and she will feel hurt if he does not spare her
the only evening he can afford to pass at Ibraïla.
Besides, the affectionate lady has just written to
say she has got up a party expressly for him. The
major now mentions, with some pride, that he
also dines with the princess, and is on a footing
of respectful intimacy with her highness. The
prince is delighted. His eyes twinkle, and he
is just going to say something extremely
Russian, when he observes the modest and knightly
devotion of the British officer's manner, and
checks his fluent tongue just in the nick of
time, knowing that it sometimes got him into
mischief in such cases, when he was somewhat
younger.

They go together to the banquet of wine and
good things, which the lady has surely prepared
for them; and every other unoccupied and
eligible person in the neighbourhood will do the
same, all being certain to be welcomed with the
frank and lavish hospitality, which is the time-
honoured custom of the land.

No gatherings in the world are so agreeable
and unembarrassed as social meetings among
the Moldo-Wallachians. The company who
mean to dine together begin to arrive at any
time in the afternoon; and they sit down on
comfortable divans, or wander about in the
interminable suites of rooms, chatting or flirting
together in couples or little groups. They tell
stories round the fire. They sing low sweet
songs together, sitting cross-legged upon soft
carpets. Much of the dreamy poetry of the
East lingers among them. Twenty or thirty
persons will be thus assembled, all doing what
they like best, independent of each other,
amidst the perfume of Turkish tobacco from
dozens of cigarettes, making a faint cloud or
gloaming about the rooms, and the constant
gentle hum of friendly voices.

A little group of the widow, the major, and
the prince, is soon formed in a convenient
corner, and the lady begins singing, with her
hand clasped confidingly in that of her lover.
The prince chimes in a beautiful second; and
they sing, and sing, and talk, and smoke, and
say genial things, till the Irish gentleman
declares his belief that Paradise must have
been originally situated on the Banks of the
Danube. He is rewarded with a smile that
would make the fortune of a whole company of
gipsies; and then come lights in noble silver
burners, and footmen in splendid liveries, and
all the stately parade of Western civilisation.
The centre dinner-table is decked out with
flowers in the latest style of St. Petersburg,
and a side table tempts the most jaded
appetite with highly spiced stimulants and those
liqueurs for which the good housekeeping of
the principality is so justly renowned. Just
before dinner, the prince speaks a few Russian
words in an earnest manner, and the widow
gently beckons her magnificent relative into her
boudoir. Then the major, whose eyes seem
always forced to follow her as steel follows the
loadstone, sees her go to her escritoire and unlock it.
"Va, Vaux Rien adorable!" says the noble lady,
in her slipshod French; and then there is a sound
like the clink of ducats in a leathern bag; but the
major is a gentleman, and he has moved away so
that he cannot hear it. He notes, however, with
a slight pang of rising jealousy, perhaps, that
when the prince leads his charmer back to the
dining-room; he keeps fast hold of her hand,
which he covers with kisses, and he pours out
such a flood of soft, melodious Wallachian
words, all vowels, as makes the widow quite
blush with pride and pleasure, though she does
turn away and try to get her hand free. The
fact is, my prince, seeing how happy she is,
and how she has softened towards him,
considers such an opportunity far too good to be
lost, and has just borrowed a hundred Austrian
ducats of her for his present occasions,
alleging as a pretext that he is only furnished