A BIRD OF PASSAGE.
BY BEATRICE HARRADEN.
It was about four in the afternoon when a young girl came into the salon of the little hotel at C. in Switzerland, and drew her chair up to the fire.
"You are soaked through," said an elderly lady, who was herself trying to get roasted. "You ought to lose no time in changing your clothes."
"I have not anything to change," said the young girl, laughing. "Oh, I shall soon be dry."
"Have you lost all your luggage?" asked the lady sympathetically.
"No," said the young girl, "I had none to lose." And she smiled a little mischievously, as though she knew by instinct that her companion's sympathy would at once degenerate into suspicion!
"I don't mean to say that I have not a knapsack," she added considerately. "I have walked a long distance--in fact from Z."
"And where did you leave your companions?" asked the lady, with a touch of forgiveness in her voice.