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 PRAISE FOR PYTHON CRASH COURSE
“It has been interesting to see No Starch Press producing future
classics that should be alongside the more traditional programming
books. Python Crash Course is one of those books.”
—GREG LADEN, SCIENCEBLOGS

“Deals with some rather complex projects and lays them out in a
consistent, logical, and pleasant manner that draws the reader into
the subject.”
—FULL CIRCLE MAGAZINE

“Well presented with good explanations of the code snippets. The

book works with you, one small step at a time, building more
complex code, explaining what’s going on all the way.”
—FLICKTHROUGH REVIEWS

“Learning Python with Python Crash Course was an extremely

positive experience! A great choice if you’re new to Python.”
—MIKKE GOES CODING

“Does what it says on the tin, and does it really well. . . . Presents a
large number of useful exercises as well as three challenging and
entertaining projects.”
—REALPYTHON.COM

“A fast-paced but comprehensive introduction to programming

with Python, Python Crash Course is another superb book to add to
your library and help you finally master Python.”
—TUTORIALEDGE.NET

“A brilliant option for complete beginners without any coding

experience. If you’re looking for a solid, uncomplicated intro to
this very deep language, I have to recommend this book.”
—WHATPIXEL.COM
“Contains literally everything you need to know about Python and
even more.”
—FIREBEARSTUDIO.COM
 PYTHON CRASH COURSE
2ND EDITION
A Hands-On, Project-Based Introduction to
Programming

by Eric Matthes

San Francisco
PYTHON CRASH COURSE, 2ND EDITION. Copyright © 2019 by Eric Matthes.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the
publisher.

ISBN-10: 1-59327-928-0
ISBN-13: 978-1-59327-928-8

Publisher: William Pollock

Production Editor: Riley Hoffman
Cover Illustration: Josh Ellingson
Cover and Interior Design: Octopod Studios
Developmental Editor: Liz Chadwick
Technical Reviewer: Kenneth Love
Copyeditor: Anne Marie Walker
Compositors: Riley Hoffman and Happenstance Type-O-Rama
Proofreader: James Fraleigh
For information on distribution, translations, or bulk sales, please contact No Starch Press, Inc.
directly:

No Starch Press, Inc.

245 8th Street, San Francisco, CA 94103
phone: 1.415.863.9900; info@nostarch.com
www.nostarch.com
The Library of Congress has catalogued the first edition as follows:

Matthes, Eric, 1972-

Python crash course : a hands-on, project-based introduction to programming / by
Eric Matthes.
pages cm
Includes index.
Summary: "A project-based introduction to programming in Python, with exercises.
Covers general
programming concepts, Python fundamentals, and problem solving. Includes three
projects - how to
create a simple video game, use data visualization techniques to make graphs and
charts, and build
an interactive web application"-- Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-59327-603-4 -- ISBN 1-59327-603-6
1. Python (Computer program language) I. Title.
QA76.73.P98M38 2015
005.13'3--dc23
2015018135

No Starch Press and the No Starch Press logo are registered trademarks of No Starch Press,
Inc. Other product and company names mentioned herein may be the trademarks of their
respective owners. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked
name, we are using the names only in an editorial fashion and to the benefit of the trademark
owner, with no intention of infringement of the trademark.

The information in this book is distributed on an “As Is” basis, without warranty. While every
precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor No Starch
Press, Inc. shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage
caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in it.
About the Author
Eric Matthes is a high school science and math teacher living in Alaska,
where he teaches an introductory Python course. He has been writing
programs since he was five years old. Eric currently focuses on writing
software that addresses inefficiencies in education and brings the
benefits of open source software to the field of education. In his spare
time he enjoys climbing mountains and spending time with his family.
About the Technical Reviewer
Kenneth Love has been a Python programmer, teacher, and conference
organizer for many years. He has spoken and taught at many
conferences, been a Python and Django freelancer, and is currently a
software engineer for O’Reilly Media. Kenneth is co-creator of the
django-braces package, which provides several handy mixins for
Django’s class-based views. You can keep up with him on Twitter at
@kennethlove.
 For my father, who always made time to answer my
questions about programming, and for Ever, who is just
beginning to ask me his questions
 BRIEF CONTENTS
Preface to the Second Edition
Acknowledgments
Introduction

PART I: BASICS
Chapter 1: Getting Started
Chapter 2: Variables and Simple Data Types
Chapter 3: Introducing Lists
Chapter 4: Working with Lists
Chapter 5: if Statements
Chapter 6: Dictionaries
Chapter 7: User Input and while Loops
Chapter 8: Functions
Chapter 9: Classes
Chapter 10: Files and Exceptions
Chapter 11: Testing Your Code

PART II: PROJECTS

Project 1: Alien Invasion

Chapter 12: A Ship that Fires Bullets
Chapter 13: Aliens!
Chapter 14: Scoring
Project 2: Data Visualization
Chapter 15: Generating Data
Chapter 16: Downloading Data
Chapter 17: Working with APIs

Project 3: Web Applications

Chapter 18: Getting Started with Django
Chapter 19: User Accounts
Chapter 20: Styling and Deploying an App

Afterword

Appendix A: Installation and Troubleshooting

Appendix B: Text Editors and IDEs
Appendix C: Getting Help
Appendix D: Using Git for Version Control

Index
 CONTENTS IN DETAIL
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION
Who Is This Book For?
What Can You Expect to Learn?
Online Resources
Why Python?

PART I: BASICS

1
GETTING STARTED
Setting Up Your Programming Environment
Python Versions
Running Snippets of Python Code
About the Sublime Text Editor
Python on Different Operating Systems
Python on Windows
Python on macOS
Python on Linux
Running a Hello World Program
Configuring Sublime Text to Use the Correct Python Version
Running hello_world.py
Troubleshooting
Running Python Programs from a Terminal
On Windows
On macOS and Linux
Exercise 1-1: python.org
 Exercise 1-2: Hello World Typos
Exercise 1-3: Infinite Skills
Summary

2
VARIABLES AND SIMPLE DATA TYPES
What Really Happens When You Run hello_world.py
Variables
Naming and Using Variables
Avoiding Name Errors When Using Variables
Variables Are Labels
Exercise 2-1: Simple Message
Exercise 2-2: Simple Messages
Strings
Changing Case in a String with Methods
Using Variables in Strings
Adding Whitespace to Strings with Tabs or Newlines
Stripping Whitespace
Avoiding Syntax Errors with Strings
Exercise 2-3: Personal Message
Exercise 2-4: Name Cases
Exercise 2-5: Famous Quote
Exercise 2-6: Famous Quote 2
Exercise 2-7: Stripping Names
Numbers
Integers
Floats
Integers and Floats
Underscores in Numbers
Multiple Assignment
Constants
Exercise 2-8: Number Eight
Exercise 2-9: Favorite Number
Comments
How Do You Write Comments?
What Kind of Comments Should You Write?
Exercise 2-10: Adding Comments
The Zen of Python
Exercise 2-11: Zen of Python
Summary

3
INTRODUCING LISTS
What Is a List?
Accessing Elements in a List
Index Positions Start at 0, Not 1
Using Individual Values from a List
Exercise 3-1: Names
Exercise 3-2: Greetings
Exercise 3-3: Your Own List
Changing, Adding, and Removing Elements
Modifying Elements in a List
Adding Elements to a List
Removing Elements from a List
Exercise 3-4: Guest List
Exercise 3-5: Changing Guest List
Exercise 3-6: More Guests
Exercise 3-7: Shrinking Guest List
Organizing a List
Sorting a List Permanently with the sort() Method
Sorting a List Temporarily with the sorted() Function
Printing a List in Reverse Order
Finding the Length of a List
Exercise 3-8: Seeing the World
Exercise 3-9: Dinner Guests
Exercise 3-10: Every Function
Avoiding Index Errors When Working with Lists
Exercise 3-11: Intentional Error
Summary

4
WORKING WITH LISTS
Looping Through an Entire List
A Closer Look at Looping
Doing More Work Within a for Loop
Doing Something After a for Loop
Avoiding Indentation Errors
Forgetting to Indent
Forgetting to Indent Additional Lines
Indenting Unnecessarily
Indenting Unnecessarily After the Loop
Forgetting the Colon
Exercise 4-1: Pizzas
Exercise 4-2: Animals
Making Numerical Lists
Using the range() Function
Using range() to Make a List of Numbers
Simple Statistics with a List of Numbers
List Comprehensions
Exercise 4-3: Counting to Twenty
Exercise 4-4: One Million
Exercise 4-5: Summing a Million
Exercise 4-6: Odd Numbers
Exercise 4-7: Threes
Exercise 4-8: Cubes
Exercise 4-9: Cube Comprehension
Working with Part of a List
Slicing a List
Looping Through a Slice
Other documents randomly have
different content
 "There he is!" cried Aunt Bee, rising from among her tea-things. Rona
did not rise. She leaned forward with an air of interest, but quite controlled.
Miss Rawson was halfway across the lawn when Denzil stepped out
through the drawing-room window, joined her on the terrace, greeted her
with affection, and strolled with her towards the table in the shade.

Then Veronica rose, slowly, to her full height. The moment lent a slight
added glow to the carnation of her smooth cheek. But the shy dignity of her
attitude was almost condescending, as Aunt Bee noted with relish.

Denzil was looking his best. Yachting suited him. He was tanned and
healthy-looking, his blue eyes very clear, as if with the reflection of the seas
whereon he had lately sailed. He was in the midst of a sentence when he
perceived the young regal creature rising from the low chair to greet him.
His voice died away, and for a moment he stopped short just where he was,
upon the grass.

"Is that—Rona—Miss Smith?"

He corrected himself with haste, with sudden, helpless confusion. He

dare not call her Rona; and that such a goddess could be called Smith!

His appearance pleased the girl. This was a man of wisdom and
character, she told herself—a man who knew the world—not a mad boy
who went tilting at windmills. The gratitude in her heart welled up into her
glorious eyes as she laid her hand in his without a word.

"So you are grown up!" said Denzil, wondering and gazing, and
drinking her in.

"Thanks to you," she responded, in a sweet, rather low-pitched voice, "I

am grown up and ready to face the world."

"To face the world!" echoed the Squire. "I wonder what you mean by
that! How well you look! I was not sure that you and Aunt Bee were home,
or I should have hurried back yesterday."
 "Rona does look well, and so do you, Denzil. I don't think I ever saw
you look better," said Miss Rawson, handing him his tea. "We got home the
day before yesterday. The heat in London and Paris was too great for us to
wish to stay there."

"And what do you mean by facing the world?" persisted Denzil, sitting
down luxuriously, tossing his straw hat upon the grass, and lifting his
dazzled eyes once more upon the princess of Thule who stood before him.

"I mean," said Rona, turning with composure and once more seating
herself, "that, owing to you, I have a first-rate education and the means to
earn my living. I am ready to begin, as soon as possible. I want to repay you
all that my schooling has cost you."

Her manner in speaking was one of perfect simplicity. There were no

protestations, no asseverations. Yet her gratitude and her independent pride
were both apparent, and both, coming from her, seemed subtly wonderful.

Miss Rawson looked up in surprise. Strange as it may seem, this idea

had not occurred to her. She was not a modern woman, and had no idea of
woman's vocations. She had fancied that Rona would be abundantly content
to remain at Normansgrave until Denzil married her or David fetched her
away. So had Denzil. He gazed at her in perplexity, in wonder, in vast
admiration. He might have known she would show this fine spirit.

"Surely," she said, earnestly, "you did not think that I was a sort of
bottomless gulf, swallowing all your money and kindness with no hope of
returning it? I can work, and I wish to work. I could not live here as a
pauper, dependent on your charity, could I?"

"What do you propose to do?" asked Denzil.

"To write stories for the magazines. There was a girl at Rennes whose
elder sister earned about a hundred and fifty pounds a year in that way."

"But, my dear child," said Aunt Bee, "how do you know that you have
the capacity to write stories?"
 "Because I have already written one," said Rona, calmly. "I wrote it and
sent it to this girl's sister to dispose of. She sold it at once, and I got three
guineas for it!"

They sat staring at her.

"I had to have it typed, so that I did not get the full price for it," she
went on. "I shall be obliged to learn to use a typewriter, as it costs too much
to pay to have things typed. That will all be by degrees."

"I should think so!" gasped Aunt Bee.

"And," she went on, quite calmly, "it is in my mind to ask you if I might
stay here with you six months? I am afraid it will take me six months to
earn enough money to set up in London, even in one room."

Denzil laid down his plate of strawberries and cream, and cleared his
throat.

"One swallow does not make a summer!" he remarked, profoundly.

"You must not expect, because one of your stories got published, to be able
to sell others."

"The editor who bought the last said he would take more of the same
kind," she replied, unmoved. "I sent him another last week, and I expect
soon to hear from him."

"I don't see why you should not write stories, dear," said Aunt Bee, in
amusement. "But is it absolutely necessary that this should be done in one
room in London? Could you not write your stories just as well here, without
depriving us of our girl?"

"Exactly!" broke in Denzil, warmly; so warmly that his aunt had much
ado not to laugh. "She has done it," was her inner thought. "He knows now
that he cannot let her go."

The unaccustomed feeling was almost more than Denzil could cope
with. He became quite absent-minded, and seemed as if some curious
oppression lay upon him.

He rose, after a few minutes, and stood squarely before Rona, his hands
behind him. "What is your last news of your brother?" he asked.

Rona looked up, startled. "He—he has not written at all lately," she said.
"You know Mr. Vronsky and he went back to Siberia, to the mines there,
after establishing his patent in Europe."

"What do you think he would say to me if I allowed you to go off and

live alone, without consulting him? I hope you won't think me a tyrant, but I
don't see how I can sanction your going off alone without his written
permission."

Aunt Bee murmured assent. "Strange how necessity spurs the wit!" she
thought.

"You know, I feel you would not be safe alone in London," said Denzil,
seriously. "No—not simply because you are a girl; I know girls do these
things now. But because you have enemies, and they might find you out.
Remember you are not yet of age. What if your uncle should try to
recapture you?"

He saw that this shot had told. Rona grew white. "Oh!" she said,
irresolutely, "but I should think that is safe now. He has left me alone all
this time."

"But he may be watching for just such a chance."

She lifted her liquid eyes to his face. "I do not want to go away," she
said frankly, "but I do not want to be a burden—a sponge. You have been so
kind, I want you to know that I am very far from expecting you to do
more."

Her look fell away from the expression in his.

"Write stories, by all means," said Denzil, his eyes resting fascinated on
the brim of her lowered hat. "But save your money for future emergencies.
Meanwhile, it is holiday-time. Shall we postpone the discussion for a few
weeks? I feel, in this weather, as if I did not want to talk business. Give me
my holiday—you take yours. Stay here meanwhile, and when the summer
days are over we can decide upon future plans. Come—show me the
stables, the kitchen-garden, the palm-stoves—I have been away an age, and
I want to look at everything!"

He held out his hand to her, and, with a hesitation which Miss Rawson
remarked, she gave him hers. He raised her to her feet, and they stood
together a moment, looking into each other's eyes.

Rona would not have been human had she failed to read the admiration
in his. His heart swelled with the true Cophetuan delight. He had all, she
had nothing but her beauty. He was master of his actions and his fortune;
there was nobody to dictate to him, should he marry the beggar maid. And
now the idea, which had so shyly nestled in his heart for two years,
suddenly shook its wings and soared. He would marry this interesting girl,
whose grace and dignity were worthy of being raised to his throne.

And for the first time the same idea struck Rona—struck her with a
shock. Never till that moment had she thought of Denzil as a man who
might love and wish to marry her. He had seemed older, too staid—as she
said to David—too fiddle-faddly. But now that she was grown, up, she
knew that the disparity between them was by no means too great—the
difference between nineteen and thirty-three.

They wandered into the old walled fruit garden, down past a long strip
of border, garnished in one place with bits of quartz in strange devices.

"I never come past here," said Denzil, falteringly, "without thinking of
my dead brother."

"Your brother?" said the girl, in speechless amazement. "I never knew
you had a brother!"

"No," he replied, in a deep voice, stopping before the bits of quartz—"I

never speak of him. It is too distressing a subject; and, by my orders,
nobody has ever mentioned him to you. But one day, perhaps, I shall be
able to tell you about him. This was his garden, when he was a little chap.
Old Penton, the gardener, keeps it up, as he used to like it kept. Do you see
the rockery? He made it all himself. Poor fellow!" As he stood looking
down upon the bits of stone, and the little ferns that grew still, though the
stormy, wayward heart of the young man was dust, his eyes filled with
tears. Here was he, Denzil, in possession of wealth, land, love, everything
that makes life glorious; and his brother had crowned a career of folly by a
death of crime.

The old gardener was working not far off. He came up to greet his
master and say how well he looked.

"Aye," he said, "and there's poor Master Felux's bit o' garden. I always
keeps it, so I do. I was rare and fond o' him when he wor a little lad. And I
see his spirit walk, I did, one evening in spring, two year and more back.
Soon after the noos of his death came it wor—and a Sunday evening. I see
him as plain as I sees you two now—walking along the avenue. But the
light was bad, and he slipped away, and I didn't see him no more." He
brushed the back of his hand over his eyes, and his voice broke. "I says to
my missus that night, 'No fear but what he's gone,' I says. 'For I've a-just
seen him'; and she says, 'Tummus, you be a gawp!'—just like that. But for
all her gawps I seen him—I seen him right enough—and his face as white
as if he'd been in his coffin."

They smiled tenderly upon the old man's delusion.

CHAPTER XIV

"YOU NEVER WERE MINE"

—You have taken from me
The Present, and I murmur not, nor moan;
The Future too, with all her glorious promise;
 But do not leave me utterly alone!
Spare me the Past.
—ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

For Denzil Vanston the days which ensued upon his homecoming were
days of charm and wonder. Life for him took on new colors, the presence of
Rona in the house gave an unwonted zest even to the most trivial things.

Miss Rawson watched, well pleased, the intercourse between the two.

They played tennis and golf, they rowed and punted together. Rona's
physical health was perfect, and she was apparently never tired.

But when a fortnight of such dalliance had gone by, the vigilant aunt
began to think that, if anything were to come of it, she had better take some
steps to force the pace.

Denzil had never been a hot-blooded young man, and he was no longer
in his first youth. He seemed quite satisfied with what his aunt impatiently
characterized to herself as "philandering" with the beautiful girl with whom
his generosity had enabled him to be on terms of intimacy. He did not make
love to Veronica. He complacently played a semi-paternal part, treating her
indulgently, as a beloved child; and he was, to all appearance, abundantly
content with the situation as it was.

But the looker-on knew that this apparently stable and well-balanced
position must of necessity be of a most temporary and elusive character.
Veronica had not been a week in the house, when the young men of the
neighborhood took to coming to call in a persistent and unusual manner;
and invitations to dinner arrived, pointedly including "the young friend who
is staying with you."

It should be remarked that Mr. Vanston possessed in a marked degree

one valuable quality—the virtue of discretion. He had held his tongue about
the waif girl whom his aunt had rescued from the canal barge. One or two
of the old servants at Normansgrave—Chant, the butler, for example—
knew of the circumstances of Rona's first appearance. So also did Dr.
Causton. The nurse who had then been employed at the Cottage Hospital
had since married and left the neighborhood; and as Rona had not been seen
for two years, and nobody had spoken of her, she was not, upon her
reappearance, associated in people's minds with the circumstances of her
first arrival. This had taken place just at the time when poor Felix's suicide,
or disappearance, had been in the foreground of everybody's thoughts
concerning the Vanstons. Everybody who called upon Miss Rawson during
the sad period had been so eager to be informed upon the subject, that the
topic of the girl from the barge had not been necessary in order to maintain
conversation.

And now that Rona had come to stay at Normansgrave for an indefinite
term, Denzil decided that she should use her own name, of Leigh, and not
be called Smith any longer, as for safety's sake, and in case anybody should
be making inquiries for her, she had been called during her two years
abroad. Nobody was likely to associate the tall, graceful, well-dressed Miss
Leigh, now visiting her friends, with the pale, half-grown creature who had
been the first patient at the now popular Cottage Hospital.

Denzil had taken an opportunity of telling Dr. Causton that he wished

no mention of the barge episode to be made. He said that there was a reason
for silence. Dr. Causton, who possessed both brains and eyes, had naturally
perceived that Rona was not among her accustomed surroundings when he
first found her upon the Sarah Dawkes. He concluded that the secret had
been confided to the Vanstons, who had so generously befriended her, and
kept his counsel accordingly.

To inquiring friends Miss Rawson simply said that Denzil was acting as
guardian to Miss Leigh for her brother, who was in Siberia; a statement
which, as far as she knew, was perfectly true.

If Miss Rawson had found Rona interesting in her youth and

helplessness, she was now amazed at the character and ability developed by
the foundling. She knew that this was a most unusual girl: she believed that
she was the very woman for Denzil, could she but be induced to think so.
And at this point in her career—before she had discovered her power—and
while the glow of her gratitude to Denzil, and the fact of her having known
no other young men, conspired to make him acceptable in her eyes—it
seemed this might be compassed.

To Aunt Bee's acute intelligence, the fact of the girl's nameless,

homeless condition was by no means altogether a drawback. She had been
most carefully trained from early childhood; she seemed to have no
undesirable relatives, with the one exception of the Wicked Uncle; and
having no mother or sisters of her own to interfere, she would be more
dependent upon Miss Rawson. And this dear lady would hardly have been
human had she not felt that she would like a certain amount of influence
with Denzil's wife.

But, if it were to be done, it must be done at once. She felt this keenly.
Rona was already longing to stretch her wings. Her second story had been
bought by the editor who took her first. She had, apparently, a play of fancy
of that graceful, iridescent kind which suits the pages of the modern
magazine. And here was a source of income, likely to become considerable.
And no doubt Rona had imbibed, with her modern education, modern ideas
of womanly independence, though at present these were tempered by the
conventual upbringing.

The uncle who had designed the girl for the stage had been a man of
penetration. She was not only beautiful, she was beautiful in a dramatic
style. Soon—very soon—somebody would tell her so. Soon she would
awake to the consciousness of Power. And then good-by to Denzil's
chances!

Miss Rawson had no wish to entrap the girl before she was old enough
to judge for herself. She sincerely thought that, if it could be brought about,
she would be happy with Denzil, that the career of being mistress of a
house, and a personage in the county, would occupy her talents in a safe and
satisfactory manner. She would kindle her husband's ambitions, she would
be the mother of splendid children. In her the traditions of the family would
blossom once more.

Such was the earnest ambition of Aunt Bee. She knew the good in
Denzil. He was capable of being an excellent husband and father. But he
must secure Rona before passion awoke in her.
 To this end she plotted. She invited a house-party to stay at
Normansgrave. Among them was that same Miss Myrtle Bentley whom
Denzil had once thought that he could like well enough to bestow upon her
the priceless treasure of his heart. There is little doubt that she would have
accepted it, most gratefully; for she was twenty-eight, and the slight
primness which endeared her to Denzil was not an attraction in the eyes of
other men.

She came; and Denzil marveled that he could ever have been drawn
towards her. Others came too. Several young men. Aunt Bee asked none
whom she thought likely to be dangerous to Rona; but several to whom she
thought Rona would inevitably be dangerous.

As a few days fleeted by, she congratulated herself upon the success of
her maneuver. The young men surrounded Rona as flies hover about honey.
Denzil was no longer able to monopolize her. He felt the change acutely.
His aunt had strong hopes that, before long, his calm must give way, and he
be driven over the verge of a declaration.

It was to her unaccountable that he should be so slow to move. But she

had to admit that Veronica gave him no help. Veronica was not the least bit
in love. She was reveling, with all her intense physical capacity, in the
pleasure which life gave her. Surrounded by summer weather, pleasant
people, and beautiful country, she gave herself up to holiday happiness—
picnics by river, picnics by motor, garden-parties, golf, and dancing—each
thing in turn was new, was absorbing, was delightful.

She seemed fast slipping into that daughterly attitude towards Denzil
which Aunt Bee dreaded and strove to avert.

The girl was living in the golden present moment. There was a dark
background to her thought. Now and then, even in the midst of her mirth,
the shadow of her secret betrothal flapped its black wings in the sunshine.
But she turned her mind and her heart away from it. She was gloriously
amused, she was glowing with the pride of life and youth. She was not
going to think upon any disagreeable subject.
 And then, one morning, there lay upon her plate a letter. A letter with
the usual Russian stamps and the usual typewritten address. For Felix never
dared risk his handwriting, for fear of recognition.

Veronica gazed upon that envelope as a man may look upon the Black
Hand which is the secret summons of some nefarious society, and calls
upon him to prepare for death. A gust of loathing memory swept over her.
Again she saw the dun half-daylight of a London winter; again the endless
lines of railway far below. She smelt the odor of hay and tarpaulin, and saw
the dizzy lights upon the black, slow river.

She resented being reminded of the terrible moment of her despair, her
escape, her accident, her privations. She looked down the breakfast-table at
the well-looking, prosperous people who were feeding there. What had she
and they in common with anarchy and jail, and all the other awful things
that lie out of sight, in the darker corners of life?

Whatever happened, she could not open and read her letter then. She
slipped it into her pocket unnoticed. She intended to read it as soon as she
should be alone. But immediately after breakfast all was bustle and
movement, since they were going to scull up the Wey to the ruins of
Newark Abbey for a picnic. There was no leisure to break the fatal seal.

One person had noted the arrival of the letter. This was Miss Rawson.
She welcomed it. This might bring matters to a climax, where she had failed
to do so. If Rona's brother was coming to fetch her away, then surely Denzil
would find out the nature of his own complaint, and take steps to prevent
her departure.

She watched Veronica with some keenness, as she went to and fro,
playing assistant hostess very prettily under Aunt Bee's directions, and
seeing that everybody was comfortably seated in the various motors and
traps, with rugs, cushions, and so on. Miss Rawson had slightly sprained
her knee, and was in consequence unable to go that day's expedition. She
stood in the hall superintending the departure.

Denzil was driving his own dogcart, and by a little gentle maneuvering,
Myrtle Bentley had secured the seat beside him. This made him rather
cross, though he knew quite well that Rona and he, in consideration of their
guests, could not well drive down together. His face was moody as he
sought for a missing whip among the contents of a stand in the hall.

His aunt's eyes twinkled. "I suppose," she very softly remarked, in a
pensive way, "that it is, after all, a good thing that Rona will so soon be
leaving us."

Denzil looked up with great suddenness. "What do you mean?" he

demanded.

"Well, I conclude her brother will be coming for her very shortly. I saw
she heard from him this morning, and he seems to be doing very well. I am
glad she will have a home, for she could not well stay here after you are
married, could she?" with a mischievous inclination of her head towards the
open door, where, in the sunshine, sat the decorous Myrtle, in a somewhat
starchy white washing frock.

"What do you mean?" repeated Denzil, vacantly, a second time,

standing as if rooted to the spot.

Aunt Bee shrugged her expressive shoulders. "I have to consider the
future, you know, dear boy. And if Rona decides upon a literary career in
London, I think I shall go and share her one room. Good-by, and good
luck!"

She laughed, in the teasing way that poor Denzil never understood.

He was as nearly rude to Miss Bentley on the drive down as he ever

permitted himself to be to a lady. She described him to herself, with some
ladylike resentment, as grumpy. He did not seem to think the day fine, nor
the drive pleasant, nor to admire the lovely view of the river, which moved
her to unusual warmth of expression.

Down at the canal side, just where once the Sarah Dawkes had been
moored, with a delirious, broken girl aboard her, stood Rona, upright as a
dart, her punt-pole in her hand. She wore a pale silvery green washing silk.
The masses of her hair were glorious under the shade of her sweeping hat.
 "You are never going to punt to-day, Rona?" cried the Squire, quite
sharply. "Do you realize that we have to get up to Newark?"

She raised her glorious eyes, full of astonishment at his unwonted

petulance—an astonishment which made him hot all over.

"Of course not. I am only steadying the boats," she said, with a chill in
that voice that was, to him, the barometer of his happiness. "I had arranged
to scull this boat with you."

His heart leaped.

"Oh, Miss Leigh, I don't think that is fair," broke in Captain Legge, a
young man who admired Rona considerably. "You and Vanston are such
swells, you must not pull together. I will go in your boat, and he had better
come here."

"Yes," cried the lady in this boat, "and here is room for Miss Bentley in
the stern."

Legge swiftly stepped into Rona's boat, and it would have been hard to
dislodge him without more commotion being made than the Squire
approved. He had to go with the other party, and to start for the day with the
remembrance that he had spoken sharply to his adored, and had no chance
to apologize. Myrtle could not scull; well and good. But she thought she
could steer, and was deceived in her opinion. This was very bad indeed. All
the way up, the temper of the young man was continually chafed, and he
had to go on smiling at her well-meant apologies, as she bumped the boat
under every one of the tiny bridges which span the stream thereabouts, and
must be shot, sculls shipped, by an experienced "cox."

It was nearly a quarter to two when they at last piloted their tiny fleet up
the deep dykes, once cut by the monks for the due supply of their Abbey,
placed with rare felicity among the windings of many streams. Little as
survives of the fabric, the situation of Newark renders it a particularly
pathetic ruin. On this day the sun poured down upon the meadow-sweet,
drawing up its fragrance in gusts of perfume; the track of each rill was
marked by a fringe of purple loose-strife; and among the forget-me-nots
darted dragon-flies, like moving gems, over the surface of the quiet waters.

It took long to discuss the excellent fare provided by Miss Rawson; and
then, in the golden afternoon, people grew drowsy, smoked, talked, told
stories, or teased and joked among themselves. In the midst of it all the
thought of her letter darted into Rona's mind. Her conscience smote her. She
told herself that she was a selfish, unfaithful friend, a girl whom, were she
to read about her in a book, she would unhesitatingly condemn. With the
excuse of hunting for flowers, she slipped away, and seeking shelter from
the burning sun, wandered into the inclosure where the ruins stand, and sat
herself down by a wall, among the grass. She thought of David as she had
last seen him. For the past two years she had hardly thought of him at all.
Now it seemed as if his very voice spoke—"You will be true to me? You
won't fail me—will you?"

The hot blood dyed her face. She was not conscious of unfaithfulness,
in the sense of having preferred anyone else to David. But she was
conscious of a complete change of mind with regard to him. She wished he
had not written. But the letter must be opened. She drew it from her pocket
with reluctant fingers, and broke the seal.

"Savlinsky Copper Mines,

"Barralinsk,
"Siberia, via Moscow.

"MY DEAR RONA,—I have not written to you for many, many weeks,
and this for two reasons. The first of these is that, since you told me of your
change of feeling towards me, I have found it very difficult to know what to
say to you. The other concerns my own personal safety.

"I do not know whether it will interest you. Since your letter I have
several times thought that my best course would be to disappear and let you
hear no more of me. But the desire in me for a kind word from you is too
strong for that.
 "If you are not interested, simply do not read this.

"As I have told you, for a period of nearly two years I was let alone by
the Brotherhood so completely that I began to think that I had shaken them
off. Most of the men who had had to do with me were killed during the
Russian Revolution. But one man, a Pole called Cravatz, bore me a special
grudge. He has tracked me in all my movements, and at last, when he found
me in Siberia, settled in a position of responsibility and trusted everywhere,
he found means to communicate with me. The Governor of this Province of
Barralinsk is obnoxious to the Brotherhood. He was in command of a
regiment in St. Petersburg during the rising, and it was believed that he had
urged the severe treatment of rebels. Knowing him as I do, I think this most
unlikely; but however, he is on the proscribed list. Cravatz brought me the
official command from the Brotherhood, that I was to be the instrument of
their vengeance upon this man. That means that I am under orders to
commit a murder. If it is not done by the last day of August my own life
will not be safe for an instant.

"This was a crushing blow to me for more reasons than one. To begin
with, the Governor is my personal friend. From him I have always received
the utmost kindness, as well as from his daughter.

"But in addition to this, I have got on so well, and my prospects are so

good, that I am in a position to gratify the only wish I have in the world,
were the woman I love only brave enough to face a life in this lonely place.
But I could not, of course, think of asking you to encounter the risk of my
being murdered, perhaps before your eyes.

"However, Vronsky, my well-loved Vronsky, who is a second father to

me, thinks he sees a way out. Cravatz is a thorough-paced scoundrel, and he
has put himself within reach of the law out here.

"If we can get him arrested all will be well; there is no other member of
the Brotherhood to follow the thing up.

"And now comes the question. If I can arrange this matter—will you
come to me? I would travel to England, for I can get three months' leave—
and marry you and bring you out here. It is a desolate village, but lovely in
summer-time. You would have a comfortable house and good servants.

"But what is the use of writing this? Even as I do it, I laugh at myself. Is
it likely that such a thing as this should happen to me?

"You are not mine, and never will be. You never were mine. It was your
sweet child-sympathy that made you think for a few minutes—a few
minutes of pity and regret—that you could love me. You repented almost at
once—did you not?

"Don't think that I am going to reproach you. The thing was inevitable. I
had no right to suggest to you what I did.

"You must not reproach yourself. I am older, harder, stronger now. I

shall not take laudanum, even though I have to live without hope.

"I have delayed the sending of this letter for three awful months of
consuming impatience, in order to be pretty certain that we had a reasonable
chance of laying hold of Cravatz. That assurance Vronsky now gives me. I
therefore write. My feeling for you has never changed. I am, as always,
your lover, and would-be husband.

"But should you send to me the words I dare not think of as possible—
should your answer be 'Yes, I will come to you'—then there are things about
myself that I must tell you.

"Don't keep me waiting, will you? Decide quickly, write, put me out of
my pain. Life here is long, days pass slowly, and I am starving for a word.
Remember that, and be merciful.—I am your devoted DAVID SMITH."

Rona sat, with this letter in her hands, staring across at the pine-covered
hill which fronts the Abbey; and it seemed as if her world were turning
upside down. It had come. The thing which had loomed in the dim future,
the thing that during the past months she had almost forgotten, was now
upon her. She had received from David a definite offer of marriage, and it
must be answered, one way or another.

And, in the passionate revolt of her whole nature, she felt that she could
not do it. Her home was here—here at Normansgrave, where first she had
known happiness in all her lonely, unfriended life.

Meanwhile, she had given her promise. She had given it fully, freely,
without hesitation, to the young man who was as friendless, as forlorn as
she. But in the time which had passed since then she had found home and
friends, life was opening before her—while he was lonely still. Lonely and
wanting her. What was she to do?

With a passion of terror and repulsion she contemplated the idea of

going off with this stranger, whom she had known only for three wild days
—of leaving for his sake, England, and all that England means. Oh—she
could not do it; as he said in his letter, he ought not to demand it!

In the agony of her feelings she bowed her head upon her hands; and it
seemed as if some inner barrier broke so that the tears came. She was a girl
who seldom wept, and having once given way, she grieved with an
abandonment which frightened her. To her horror she found that she could
not control herself. She was obliged to bend before the storm which shook
her. It was half shame. By all the rules, she should be ready to die for this
man who had saved her; and she, on the contrary, recoiled with shuddering
from the mere thought of him.

It was upon this desolation of grief that Denzil, wandering in search of

her, came, with a thrill of horror unspeakable. With a leap into life of
something within him, he flung himself down upon the grass beside her. He
lifted her up, he held her in his arms, he found himself kissing away her
tears before he knew what he was about—and the only words that came into
his head as he clasped her close were:

"My darling, my own darling, what has made you cry?"

 CHAPTER XV

A DIFFICULT SITUATION
Does every man who names love in our lives
Become a power, for that? Is love's true thing
So much best to us, that what personates love
Is next best? ...
My soul is not a pauper; I can live
At least my soul's life, without alms from men.
—E. BARRETT BROWNING.

The distress which had overmastered Rona was so extreme that for a
few moments it seemed to her a natural thing that Denzil should be
consoling her. Her need of just that—just the comfort that mere petting
brings in overwhelming trouble—was so intense, that there was fitness in
the thought that he, the generous man who had done so much for her,
should be the one to offer comfort in her perplexity.

But to the Squire, after the impetuous outrush of sympathy which had
carried him, as it were, off his feet for a moment, there came an acute attack
of self-consciousness which could not fail to communicate itself to the girl
whom he still held in his arms.

How the fact that there was something not in the least paternal in the
pressure of those arms was conveyed to Rona is not to be explained. But the
fact remains that, in a very short time, she did realize it; and, sitting upright,
drew herself away, and covered her quivering mouth with her drenched
handkerchief.

"Oh, what an object I must be!" she gasped, shakily, with a sudden
foolish laugh, forced and unreal.
 He could not at once reply. He was moved and shaken to a surprising
degree by his plunge into so new an experience. But he made a manful
effort to answer her rationally. He thought he knew the cause of her tears,
and was not merely astonished, but frightened at their vehemence. "Oh, do
forgive me!" he stammered. "I—it was most unintentional. You are crying
because I spoke to you so harshly at the landing-stage, are you not?"

This remarkable idea had the immediate effect of turning her thoughts
and drying her tears. "Oh!" cried she, "how could you think me so silly?
No, indeed, it is not that. It is a trouble, a real one, that has come upon me
all in a minute. I ought to have expected it—I have always known that it
must come. But, somehow, one forgets—one hopes. And now it has
happened, and I must go away—away from everything that I—love."

The last word was almost inaudible, by reason of the tears which
threatened to flow again. Denzil's spirits rose with a leap. That was it—
Jealousy! Clever Aunt Bee, who had given him a hint! She was jealous of
Myrtle Bentley, and this most natural feminine feeling had shown her the
true state of her own heart. He snatched her hands.

"Darling, I know, I know! But you are quite mistaken! How could you
have got such a preposterous notion into your head? And yet it was natural,
too; for before I fell in love with you I had some thoughts of Miss—ah—
Bentley. But it was nothing. And you must not go, my Rona, but stay here
always, in your true home, with me. You will, won't you? Say that you will,
Rona?" His pulses bounded as he saw how completely he had surprised her.
"Have you not guessed?" he tenderly asked, stooping to look into her
troubled, drooping face.

"Have you not known always that I was most awfully fond of you? I
think I fell in love at first sight. But, of course, I would not speak until you
were a woman grown, and able to decide for yourself."

The words affected Rona. She contrasted his behavior with that of his
brother, as was inevitable. The rich man, who had so much to offer, had
held back, in order that her choice might be free and deliberate. Her other
suitor, the almost beggar, caught her, worked upon her gratitude, bound her
by a promise at an age when she was not able to give a valid one. The
thought of the deception which she had practiced upon this good, generous
friend for two years weighed down her spirit. How little he had known her
—the chivalrous, unworldly man, who had taken her on trust, knowing
nothing of her antecedents! The real King Cophetua can never have seen, in
the eyes of his beggar maid, a look of more fervent gratitude and admiration
than Rona lifted to her suitor's face.

Of love, as between man and woman, she knew nothing at all. His
gentle and affectionate interest was just the thing to appeal to her. And
marriage with him would mean life at Normansgrave—life in safety and
honor, and clean, open-eyed peace: life undisturbed by secrets, and dark
Brotherhoods, and sinister memories. It seemed to her that Denzil stood in
sunlight, beckoning her; while, from some dark tunnel, David stretched out
hands to drag her down.

There was bewilderment and vain regret in her voice as she told her
lover:

"Oh, you are good, you are good to me! There never was such a good
man as you!"

No words could have been more sweet in his ears. He thought her quite
right. He felt sure that he was a good, just man. And she had the insight to
perceive it. No doubt marriages are made in heaven. Rona had been sent,
bruised and maltreated, lying in a canal barge, to his door, to be the
consolation of Providence for his undeserved misfortune in having a suicide
brother. Ah, what a relief it would be to tell her all about his early manhood,
and the tragedy of Felix's disgrace!

"Then—then—you do? You will?" he stammered. "Thank Heaven, my

darling! I feared perhaps you might think me too old and grave. But with
you I shall grow young again——"

She checked him as, taking her hands, he made a movement as if to

draw her nearer.

"Oh, stop! Wait!" she gasped, falteringly, her head spinning with the
excitement of the situation, which seemed to be carrying her away. "There
is something I must tell you first—something you must hear. I don't know
how to tell you.... Oh, Mr. Vanston, if only I had been perfectly frank with
you from the first! You will be so—so disappointed in me. I feel as if—as if
I dare not tell you!" She stopped, for the effort to speak seemed likely to
choke her.

Denzil's face grew pale with apprehension. His heart knocked loudly.
What was he about to hear?

"Wait," he said, kindly, but with a slight difference from his former
tenderness of manner; "don't speak until you can do so without distressing
yourself——"

Something in his tone—an indefinable drawing-back—caused her to cry

out with urgency. "Listen! Had I guessed—had I had the least idea that you
were going to say—what you said to me just now, I would have stopped
you. Let us pretend that you did not say it! We are as we were this morning
—you my kindest friend, I your most devoted child. Now listen. I am
engaged already. I have been secretly engaged ever since I—almost ever
since I first came into your house."

He was so surprised that for a few moments he sat quite still, while a
dull brick-red surged up under his fair skin. Rona lowered before him the
proud head she had always carried so high. At last he brought out:
"Engaged! To whom?"

"To the young man who called himself my brother—to David Smith."

There was silence. Denzil took in and digested this new view of the girl
at his side. He had thought her every idea and tendency known to him. He
had believed that he himself had formed her tastes and decided her bent.
And now he was faced by the awful thought that in her tender girlhood
another man had kissed her—held her in his arms.... He remembered the
conditions under which she had been found—on board a canal barge—with
this wild youth who was not her brother! A horrible despondency assailed
him, darkening the face of the fair landscape. All that he said was: "I could
not have believed it of you, Rona."
 She winced, but maintained her composure. For long had she dreaded
this moment. It was almost with relief that she found herself living through
it. In all her forecastings of the scene, she had pictured herself as making
her avowal to Miss Rawson also.

Denzil alone was unquestionably easier to deal with.

She continued her confession.

"I have had a letter from him—to-day!"

"Indeed!" Denzil's voice sounded as though dashed with ice.

Its coldness was ominous, and stung her.

"Listen!" she urged. "If you turn from me, what is to become of me?
You are the only person in all the world who cares—except him! You are
the only person who could advise me, who could help—who could—could
—save me from him."

There was a moment's tense silence; then he said, in a softer tone, "So
you do not—love this—er—this young man to whom you are plighted?"

She shook her head. "I was a child, you know," she faltered. "And I—I
hardly knew him. But, you see, he had saved my life. He had saved me
from—worse than death, I think. I was very grateful to him." She mused for
a moment, and then timidly asked, "Will you read his letter?"

Denzil was not a great-minded man, nor a clever man, but he had his
code of honor. "Are you pledged to secrecy?" he asked. "I gather that this
young man has claims upon your gratitude, if not your affection. Ought you
to show me his letter?"

His integrity made her admire him afresh.

"Yes," she said, "I can hardly do otherwise, now. For he asks me to
make a decision. He wants to come over and marry me, and take me out
there to—to Siberia to live."
 "To Siberia!" echoed Denzil in horror.

In truth, the idea of this brother of Rona's had occupied but a very small
niche in his mind. He was abroad, he was poor, he hardly counted, except in
so far as he would be overcome with joy at the marvelous condescension of
Mr. Vanston in raising his sister to the rank and dignity of his wife.

And now he faced the idea that this man was a living power, to be
reckoned with; that he could, if he chose, take Rona away, to the ends of the
earth, and leave him bereft of all that made life pleasant to him. And, on
that, another thought shot swiftly into his mind. If David Smith were no
relative, then David Smith had no legal claim. To such claim as gratitude
may give, Denzil had a far better right than he.

"You see," said Rona, "if he comes home to marry me, everything must
be known. There cannot be any more secret-keeping. David can tell you
nothing of me; when you found me, I had only known him a day or two; he
knows no more than I do of my family or position. I have never been told
who my mother was, nor my father. I was brought up in a convent school. I
had been there ever since I was a baby. My uncle, Rankin Leigh, who took
me away, was a perfectly detestable person—a person you would not speak
to, nor have any dealings with. Oh," she wound up, with a sort of grim
desperation, "it is of no use! You could never marry a girl like me. He had
better come and fetch me away. I did promise him, and he—he—poor boy,
he has nobody but me."

After a minute's helpless silence, "Will you show me his letter?" asked
Denzil, wearily.

She drew the letter from her pocket and held it to him, keeping her face
hidden. She heard him draw the paper from the envelope, and sat on in
miserable humiliated silence while he read. The sunshine was no longer
bright to her—the gray ruins were a warning of the decay of all earthly
things, however strong. Before her lay a pilgrimage into the wilderness, a
dark frowning future, and separation from all home ties.

He took a long time to read the letter—so long that at last she raised her
head to look at him. He was seated, staring straight before him, his brows
knit, and on his face a most curious expression of perplexity.

"Rona," he said, with a gravity such as she had never heard from him
—"I judge from this letter that this young man who wishes to marry you is
entangled with some gang of Nihilists."

She assented.

Denzil swallowed hard, once or twice, and then said, "Could you tell me
how you came to make acquaintance with him?" In his mind was a cold
chill, a sudden, awful thought. Cravatz, the Pole, had been tried and
acquitted at the time of Felix's condemnation.

"Yes," said Rona, simply, "I will tell you. You know something about it
—how my uncle shut me up in a room, because—because—well, chiefly
because I would not let the dreadful man, Levy, kiss me. I knew, somehow,
that that man meant to do me harm—I could see in his eyes that he was
wicked. But, of course, I was helpless—as helpless as a rabbit; and they
were starving me, so that I was weak, and I was so afraid that I should not
be able to refuse food if they brought it to me—at any price. So I decided
that the only thing I could do was to commit suicide. There were railway
lines outside the window, where I was locked up. So I said my prayers, and
then I opened the window, stood upon the sill, shut my eyes, and jumped."

Denzil uttered a cry. "Rona!" He dropped his head into his hands, and
hid his face.

"Yes," she said, quietly, "what else was there for me to do? But just
below my room there was an iron balcony, and I fell upon that, all doubled
up over the railing. Inside that room," solemnly continued the girl, "was
David Smith. What do you think he was doing? He was in the act of
drinking laudanum, with the very same idea. He, too, was in the hands of
his enemies. He, too, like me, was starving. He had nobody in the world but
his half-brother, who did not love him, and was ashamed of him. He saw
only one way out, and he was going to die. But when I fell, he rushed out
and dragged me in. I fought and struggled to get away, for, of course, I did
not know who he was. But when I was quieter, and looked at him, I could
see that he was a gentleman, though he was so terribly thin and starved. So
we ran away together. I managed, with his help, to get down to the canal
wharf, where he knew a man, who helped us to hide aboard a barge. But I
had been so badly hurt that the effort was too much for me, and I don't
remember much else, until I woke up in the Cottage Hospital."

Silence, broken only by the humming of summer insects among the

grass. Then Denzil asked, without raising his hidden face:

"And have you never seen him since?"

"Yes, once," replied Rona.

"When?" asked the hollow voice.

"One Sunday evening, just before he went away with Mr. Vronsky. He
asked me to meet him, and I went to the old arbor while you were at
evening service. He was unhappy and lonely, craving for love. He had been
good to me, and I was sorry for him. And when he asked me to promise to
be his wife when I grew up, I promised, because it seemed a little thing to
do for him. I was happy with you, and he was all alone——" Her voice
broke.

At last Denzil spoke. "Then it was really he whom the old gardener saw,
as he told us. Rona, the man who saved you is not called David Smith at all.
He is my younger brother, Felix Vanston."

The shock of these words brought the girl to her feet with a spring.
"Your brother? Your brother?" she cried, incoherently. "Oh, no, for his
brother was hard and merciless, and you—you are always so good and
generous! That can't be true—it simply can't!"

The Squire, too, rose. "Let me tell you something of our early life," he
said, with urgency. "You have told me the truth—the truth which I ought to
have heard when first you came to us. If I had known—but I do my brother
justice. He did not wish me to know that it was he until he had had a chance
to show that he meant to try and do better. He has done better. He has
apparently put in two years of good, steady work, and conquered a position
for himself. But his discreditable past still drags at his heels. What did he
tell you of his past, if I may ask the question?"

She answered, softly and low, "He told me that he had been in prison.
But he said he was very sorry. He was misled, enticed, by bad men, who
were too clever for him. He was young, and his head was full of great
ideas."

"Let us walk along, away from the others," said Denzil, "and I will try
and tell you something about Felix's mother."

CHAPTER XVI

HAPPENINGS IN A STRANGE LAND

—I ventured to remind her,
I suppose with a voice of less steadiness
Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me,
—Something to the effect that I was in readiness
Whenever God should please she needed me.
—ROBERT BROWNING.

To the English imagination, Siberia is mainly a land of cold and

darkness, through which gangs of despairing convicts are driven with the
lashings of governmental whips.

But its beauties and its resources are being by degrees revealed through
that wonderful agency for the uniting of the isolated and the rejoining of the
divided, which we call the railway.
 The province of Barralinsk is one of the most beautiful, lying, as it does,
not far east of the Ural Mountains and being well wooded in its southern
part.

To reach the Savlinsky Copper Mines one must leave the Trans-Siberian
railway at Gretz and drive for five hundred miles in a northwesterly
direction. The last three hundred miles of the journey are, for the most part,
across a treeless, rolling steppe, like some heaving sea transformed into dry
land without losing its rise and fall. But Savlinsky itself lies not more than
ten miles from a beautifully wooded district, known as Nicolashof, where
the present Governor of the province, Stepan Nikitsch, or as he was usually
called, Stepan Stepanovitch, had built himself, not far from a woodland
village, a summer residence, in which he was accustomed to pass the hot
weather, his solitude being shared by his only and motherless daughter,
Nadia Stepanovna.

The foothills of the Urals begin to rise, very gradually, out of the plain
at this point. In the distance faint blue summits and gleaming snow peaks
border the western horizon. The summer climate is delicious, and but for
the isolation Nadia would have enjoyed her Siberian summers. With her
was an English lady, Miss Forester, formerly her governess, now her
companion.

Stepan Stepanovitch was by no means the traditional Russian despotic

governor, grinding the faces of the poor. He was a just man, if a somewhat
hard one. He knew the people with whom he had to deal, and was respected
for his steady justice. He was a man with a hobby, and the nature of his
enthusiasm was one which is rare among his race.

He greatly desired to see the resources of this vast tract of practically

useless country opened up and developed. He saw in Siberia the future of
Russia. To anyone who did anything for the furtherance of his great idea he
showed the utmost encouragement and kindness. And within driving
distance from Nicolashof there was such a man established.

Vronsky had bought the mining rights of the copper which had been
newly discovered at Savlinsky, and in the midst of the steppe had called
into being a center of industry.
 For this reason Stepan Stepanovitch loved him. His burly figure was
constantly to be seen, side by side with Vronsky's tall, thin one, among the
wooden huts, not unlike Swiss cottages, which clustered thickly where
Vronsky had gashed the plain with his excavations. And Vronsky was at all
times a welcome guest at Nicolashof, where also went constantly his
secretary and adopted son, Felix Vanston; for the young man had abandoned
his alias upon passing into Asia.

Vronsky was on the way to become a rich man. He had a genius for the
development of industry—a genius which the delighted Governor could not
sufficiently admire.

His workmen were all Kirgiz, among whom there is practically no

Nihilism and no treachery. In fact, these things attract but small attention in
the remote province. The Kirgiz, besides being a more reliable person,
works for lower wages than the Russian. Work in those parts—good,
regular work with good, regular wages—was not easy to come by. The
venture had prospered exceedingly.

One glorious summer day, about two o'clock Vronsky was in bed, a
most unwilling victim of a bout of fever. He lay in his pleasant room, under
his mosquito net, smoking lazily and glancing at the papers. Presently, with
a tap on the door, a young man entered in an English suit, brown shoes, and
straw hat. A racquet was in his hand.

"Well, old man, I suppose you can't go to Nicolashof to-day? I must

make your excuses to the Governor?" he said, lightly.

Vronsky grunted. "They won't mind my absence, if you don't fail them,"
he remarked, grimly, but with a twinkle in his eye. "Take my apologies to
the Governor. He knows what fever is; and there is something else which
you must take—something of more importance to you than my regrets—of
a confounded deal more importance! Give me my dispatch-box."

The time which had elapsed since Felix Vanston and Vronsky first met
at Basingstoke railway station had made a vast difference in the younger
man. Felix had, even at that time, looked older than his age. Now this trait
was more marked. But the lines upon his face were those traced by
experience and discipline. This was a man who had himself well in hand.
His boyhood lay far behind him; he had learnt in the school of adversity.
The result was that Felix had become, in the fullest sense of the word—a
Man. You looked at him, and instinctively you trusted him. There was
strength in the expression of his mouth and truth in the steady light of his
deep-set gray eyes. These eyes had humor in them of a quiet sort. They
were the eyes of one who knew the harder side of life, and did not fear it:
unlike those of the elder man. Vronsky's were the eyes of a dreamer, and
beamed with the idealistic love which is the virtue of the Slav race. To him
this young man was as a son. He had found him, taken him up out of
despair, restored to him his self-respect, and given him, into the bargain, the
love for lack of which the young man's soul had starved until that hour.
Felix had satisfied the warmest hopes of his adopted father. He had proved
clever, persevering, trustworthy. Together they had accomplished much, and
meant to accomplish more.

Felix placed upon the bed the black tin dispatch-box. Vronsky felt under
his pillow, drew forth a key, opened with care, and took out a far smaller
box of the same kind. This he set down, and drew from his own neck a
string upon which was suspended another key with which he opened the
smaller box.

There was a sharp knock upon the door, and before Vronsky could cry
out "Who's there?" a clerk had entered abruptly.

The man paused just inside the door, while Vronsky cried, angrily, "Get
out, you fool! I am busy! Wait outside!"

Felix rose, went to the door, and closed it behind him. "What is it? Is it
important?" he asked.

"They rang up from the mine to know if the No. 40 was dispatched,"
said the clerk, sulkily.

"When Mr. Vronsky is in bed, and I am in his room, you are never to
enter without permission," said Felix, severely. "It is an order—do you
understand?"
 "Yes, sir. I am sorry," mumbled the young clerk, who was new to his
work, and possibly over-zealous. He went off, and Felix returned to where
Vronsky sat, flushed and disturbed, grasping a folded paper.

"Is that it?" whispered Felix, having locked the door.

"Yes—and he saw it. He saw the key round my neck," replied Vronsky,
furiously, though under his breath. "It was intentional. I have suspected him
ever since he entered my service. Now, the question is, What am I to do?"

Felix made a motion of his head towards the paper.

"That is the evidence of the guilt of Cravatz?"

"It came late last night."

"And I am to take it to the Governor to-day?"

"Yes; he told me that the moment it was in his hands he would have
Cravatz arrested. There is ground enough for hanging him here."

Felix stood immovable, while the blood came slowly into his face. He
might be nearer death than he knew, and the thought showed him that life
was sweeter than at times he was wont to think.

The entrance of Streloff, the new clerk, in that summary way, was the
first evidence he had had of Cravatz's spies among their own people. It
shook him a little.

"I wonder where he is—Cravatz, I mean?" he slowly said.

"Not too near, but near enough to keep in touch with your movements,
you may depend. At Gretz, I daresay."

Felix pondered. "What I have to do is to leave the house in safety with

these papers. The clerk must be detained until I have started."

"Yes," said Vronsky, after a moment's thought. "I will have him in to
take down a typed statement from my dictation. Summon him, and let Hutin