A humorous expression lurked in the courier’s eye as he made his report, and heard Amy exclaim, in a tone of disgust and comical despair,—
“Samuel Peters! That spoils all the romance and dims the beauty of the diamond. To think that a Peters should be the hero to whom I owe my safety, and a Samuel should leave me this token of regard!”
“Hush, Amy,” whispered Helen. “Thanks, Hoffman; we must wait now for chance to help us.”
IV.
A POLISH EXILE.
“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 new-comer.
“Do the open windows inconvenience you, sir?” she asked, in English.