“Will he die?” asked Amy, pathetically.
“With care he would recover, I think; but there is no one to nurse him, so the poor lad must take his chance and trust in heaven for help.”
“How sad! I wish we were going his way, so that we might do something for him—at least give him the society of his friend.”
Helen glanced at Hoffman, feeling that if he were not already engaged by them, he would devote himself to the invalid without any thought of payment.
“Perhaps we are. You want to see the Lake of Geneva, Chillon, and that neighborhood. Why not go now, instead of later?”
“Will you, uncle? That’s capital! We need say nothing, but go on and help the poor boy, if we can.”
Helen spoke like a matron of forty, and looked as full of maternal kindness as if the Pole were not out of his teens.
The courier bowed, the major laughed behind his paper, and Amy gave a sentimental sigh to the memory of the baron, in whom her interest was failing.
They only caught a glimpse of the Pole that evening at the Kursaal, but next morning they met, and he was invited to join their party for a little expedition.
The major was in fine spirits, and Helen assumed her maternal air toward both invalids, for the sound of that hollow cough always brought a shadow over her face, recalling the brother she had lost.