"Room for one here, sir," said the guard, as the train stopped at Carlsruhe next day, on its way from Heidelberg to Baden.
 
The major put down his guide-book, Amy opened her eyes, and 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 flush of feeling on his pale cheek, and answered eagerly,—
 
"Ah, you are kind; it is balm to my sore heart to hear words like these. I thank you, and tell you what you will. It is but little that I do, yet I give my life, and die a long death, instead of a quick, brave one with my comrades."
 
"You are young to have borne a part in a revolution, sir," said the major, who pricked up his ears like an old war-horse at the sound of battle.
 
"My friends and myself left the University at Varsovie, as volunteers; we did our part, and now all lie in their graves but three."
 
"You were wounded, it seems?"
 
"Many times. Exposure, privation, and sorrow will finish what the Russian bullets began. But it is well. I have no wish to see my country enslaved, and I can no longer help her."
 
"Let us hope that a happier future waits for you both. Poland loves liberty too well, and has suffered too much for it, to be kept long in captivity."
 
Helen spoke warmly, and the young man listened with a brightening face.
 
"It is a kind prophecy; I accept it, and take courage. God knows I need it," he added, low to himself.
 
"Are you bound for Italy?" said the major, in a most un-English fit of curiosity.
 
"For Geneva first, Italy later, unless Montreaux is mild enough for me to winter in. I go to satisfy my friends, but doubt if it avails."
 
"Where is Montreaux?" asked Amy.
 
"Near Clarens, where Rousseau wrote his Heloise, and Vevay, where so many English go to enjoy Chillon. The climate is divine for unfortunates like myself, and life more cheap there than in Italy."
 
Here the train stopped again, and Hoffman came to ask if the ladies desired anything.
 
At the sound of his voice the young Pole started, looked up, and exclaimed, with the vivacity of a foreigner, in German,—
 
"By my life, it is Karl! Behold me, old friend, and satisfy me that it is thyself by a handshake."
 
"Casimer! What wind blows thee hither, my boy, in such sad plight?" replied Hoffman, grasping the slender hand outstretched to him.
 
"I fly from an enemy for the first time in my life, and, like all cowards, shall be conquered in the end. I wrote thee I was better, but the wound in the breast reopened, and nothing but a miracle will save me. I go to Switzerland; and thou?"
 
"Where my master commands. I serve this gentleman, now."
 
"Hard changes for both, but with health thou art king of circumstances, while I?—Ah well, the good God knows best. Karl, go thou and buy me two of those pretty baskets of grapes; I will please myself by giving them to these pitying angels. Speak they German?"
 
"One, the elder; but they understand not this rattle of ours."
 
Karl disappeared, and Helen, who had understood the rapid dialogue, tried to seem as unconscious as Amy.
 
"Say a friendly word to me at times; I am so homesick and faint-hearted, my Hoffman. Thanks; they are almost worthy the lips that shall taste them."
 
Taking the two little osier baskets, laden with yellow and purple clusters, Casimer offered them, with a charming mixture of timidity and grace, to the girls, saying, like a grateful boy,—
 
"You give me kind words and good hopes; permit that I thank you in this poor way."
 
"I drink success to Poland." cried Helen, lifting a great, juicy grape to her lips, like a little purple goblet, hoping to hide her confusion under a playful air.
 
The grapes went round, and healths were drunk with much merriment, for in travelling on the Continent it is impossible for the gruffest, primmest person to long resist the frank courtesy and vivacious chat of foreigners.
&n............