THE DREAM MUFF [To I. K. McF.]
One more day of horror had ended for Russia. At this hour once the lamps along the Neva would have been lighted, the laughter of sleigh-riders would have resounded over the snow. But now the streets were dark—deserted save by some wandering homeless people, seeking refuge in the night.
No one seemed to know exactly what had happened—or the cause—
There was no ruler—no order—
Darkness and chaos.
A girl, perhaps of twelve, sat huddled in a ragged shawl on the steps of a closed church.
There had been a time when a fire burned—
A mother—a father—
Brothers—