Helen
removed her shawl from the opposite seat, as a young man, wrapped in
a cloak, with a green shade over his eyes, and a general air of
feebleness, got in and sank back with a sigh of weariness or pain.
Evidently an invalid, for his face was thin and pale, his dark hair
cropped short, and the ungloved hand attenuated and delicate as a
woman's. A sidelong glance from under the deep shade seemed to satisfy
him regarding his neighbors, and drawing his cloak about him with a
slight shiver, he leaned into the corner and seemed to forget that he
was not alone.

Helen and Amy exchanged glances of compassionate interest, for women
always pity invalids, especially if young, comely and of the opposite
sex. The major took one look, shrugged his shoulders, and returned
to his book. Presently a hollow cough gave Helen a pretext for
discovering the nationality of the newcomer.

"Do the open windows inconvenience you, sir?" she asked, in English.

No answer; the question evidently unintelligible.

She repeated it in French, lightly touching his cloak to arrest his
attention.

Instantly a smile broke over the handsome mouth, and in the purest
French he assured her that the fresh air was most agreeable, and
begged pardon for annoying them with his troublesome cough.

"Not an invalid, I hope, sir?" said the major, in his bluff yet kindly
voice.

"They tell me I can have no other fate; that my malady is fatal; but I
still hope and fight for my life; it is all I have to give my country
now."

A stifled sigh and a sad emphasis on the last word roused the sympathy
of the girls, the interest of the major.

He took another survey, and said, with a tone of satisfaction, as
he marked the martial carriage of the young man, and caught a fiery
glance of the half-hidden eyes,--

"You are a soldier, sir?"

"I was; I am nothing now but an exile, for Poland is in chains."

The words "Poland" and "exile" brought up all the pathetic stories of
that unhappy country which the three listeners had ever heard, and won
their interest at once.

"You were in the late revolution, perhaps?" asked the major, giving
the unhappy outbreak the most respectful name he could use.

"From beginning to end."

"Oh, tell us about it; we felt much sympathy for you, and longed to
have you win," cried Amy, with such genuine interest and pity in her
tone, it was impossible to resist.

Pressing both hands upon his breast, the young man bent low, with a
fl