Every heart was cheered and warmed by the magic of the music, the babies fell asleep, strangers grew friendly, fear changed to courage, and the most forlorn felt the romance of that bivouac under the summer sky.
Dawn was reddening the east when a welcome whistle broke up the camp. Every one hurried to the railway, but Helen paused to gather a handful of blue forget-me-nots, saying to Hoffman, who waited with her wraps on his arm,—
“It has been a happy night, in spite of the danger and discomfort. I shall not soon forget it; and take these as a souvenir.”
He smiled, standing bare-headed in the chilly wind, for his hat was lost, his coat torn, hair dishevelled, and one hand carelessly bound up in his handkerchief. Helen saw these marks of the night’s labors and perils for the first time, and as soon as they were seated desired to see his hand.
“It is nothing,—a scratch, a mere scratch, I give you my word, mademoiselle,” he began, but Wilhelm unceremoniously removed the handkerchief, showing a torn and bleeding hand which must have been exquisitely painful.
Helen turned pale, and with a reproachful glance skilfully bound it up again, saying, as she handed a silken scarf to Wilhelm,—
“Make of that a sling, please, and put the poor hand in it. Care must be taken, or harm will come of it.”
Hoffman submitted in bashful silence, as if surprised and touched by the young lady’s interest. She saw that, and added gratefully,—
“I do not forget that you saved my life, though you seem to have done so. My uncle will thank you better than I can.”
“I already have my reward, mademoiselle,” he returned, with a respectful inclination and a look she could neither understand nor forget.