Through half-closed lids she saw the muff—curving and swaying in the air—like a gray bird.
It was looking for her—there were so many freezing children in the streets—she was small for her age—
How warm—how kind of the Princess to send the muff.
Maybe mother will soon be home from work—we can have supper—
Boris will come from school—
But Boris lay dying—prisoner in the enemy's land.
When a pale sun struggled to shine down on the dirty streets—on the confusion and sorrow of that Russian city—an old Priest—dying with all the rest—of sorrow for his land—found the frozen body of a little girl—with hands clasped over her heart—a faint smile on her upturned face.