Eveline laughed unrestrainedly. "A red shirt! So that means that you have enlisted as a Garibaldian?"
"I should have done so long ago only for my mother."
"And what would you do if your hand was shot off?"
"Then I should become a pensioner to some fine lady, who would, I know, support me."
Eveline burst into tears. His words had touched a chord in her tender heart. Arpad, however, could not imagine what he had said to grieve her; he tried to console her, and asked how he had offended her. Still sobbing, she said:
"My poor little brother is dead. There by my table I keep his crutches."
"I am sorry for you; with all my heart I sympathize in your grief. He and I were good friends; we had plenty of fun together."
"Yes; you liked him. The world is quite dead to me; everything is changed. I listen for the sound of his crutches scratching along the floor up the stairs. Ah, my little brother! I have no one now. I want some one to take care of. I should like to nurse some one—an artist who had lost his eyesight; a musician whose right hand had been shot off; or a political hero, who, being pursued, concealed himself in my room, and to whom I should be benefactress, protectress, bread-winner, everything."
"Why don't you go to Garibaldi?"
She was laughing now; her moods were as variable as an April day.