Along a path trodden in the grass of the meadow, two girls, almost
children--for they had but just completed their fifteenth year--were
riding on a white horse of medium size, seated upon a large saddle with a
back to it, which easily took them both in, for their figures were slight
and delicate.

A man of tall stature, with a sun-burnt face, and long gray moustache,
was leading the horse by the bridle, and ever and anon turned towards the
girls, with an air of solicitude at once respectful and paternal. He
leaned upon a long staff; his still robust shoulders carried a soldier's
knapsack; his dusty shoes, and step that began to drag a little, showed
that he had walked a long way.

One of those dogs which the tribes of Northern Siberia harness to their
sledges--a sturdy animal, nearly of the size, form, and hairy coat of the
wolf--followed closely in the steps of the leader of this little caravan,
never quitting, as it is commonly said, the heels of his master.

Nothing could be more charming than the group formed by the girls. One
held with her left hand the flowing reins, and with her right encircled
the waist of her sleeping sister, whose head reposed on her shoulder.
Each step of the horse gave a graceful swaying to these pliant forms, and
swung their little feet, which rested on a wooden ledge in lieu of a
stirrup.

These twin sisters, by a sweet maternal caprice, had been called Rose and
Blanche; they were now orphans, as might be seen by their sad mourning
vestments, already much worn. Extremely, like in feature, and of the same
size, it was necessary to be in the constant habit of seeing them, to
distinguish one from the other. The portrait of her who slept not, might