t of twenty against
possible similar complications.

One day--it was near the examination for prizes, and her funds were
running low--she was obliged to seek one of those humbler restaurants
she knew of for her frugal breakfast. But she was not hungry, and after
a few mouthfuls left her meal unfinished as a young man entered and half
abstractedly took a seat at her table. She had already moved towards
the comptoir to pay her few sous, when, chancing to look up in a mirror
which hung above the counter, reflecting the interior of the cafe, she
saw the stranger, after casting a hurried glance around him, remove
from her plate the broken roll and even the crumbs she had left, and
as hurriedly sweep them into his pocket-handkerchief. There was nothing
very strange in this; she had seen something like it before in these
humbler cafes,--it was a crib for the birds in the Tuileries Gardens,
or the poor artist's substitute for rubber in correcting his crayon
drawing! But there was a singular flushing of his handsome face in the
act that stirred her with a strange pity, made her own cheek hot with
sympathy, and compelled her to look at him more attentively. The back
that was turned towards her was broad-shouldered and symmetrical, and
showed a frame that seemed to require stronger nourishment than the
simple coffee and roll he had ordered and was devouring slowly. His
clothes, well made though worn, fitted him in a smart, soldier-like way,
and accentuated his decided military bearing. The singular use of his
left hand in lifting his cup made her uneasy, until a slight movement
revealed the fact that his right sleeve was empty and pinned to his
coat. He was one-armed. She turned her compassionate eyes aside, yet
lingered to make a few purchases at the counter, as he paid his bill and
walked away. But she was surprised to see that he tendered the waiter
the unexampled gratuity of a sou. Perhaps he was some eccentric
Englishman; he certainly did not look like a Frenchman.

She had quite forgotten the incident, and in the afternoon had strolled
with a few fellow pupils into the galleries of the Louvre. It was
"copying-day," and as her friends loitered around the easels of the
different students with the easy consciousness of being themselves
"artists," she strolled on somewhat abstractedly before them. Her own
art was too serious to permit her much sympathy with another, and in
the chatter of her companions with the young painters a