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. No answer; the question evidently unintelligible. She repeated it in French, lightly touching his cloak to arrest his attention. Instantly a smile broke over the handsome mouth, and in the purest French he assured her that the fresh air was most agreeable, and begged pardon for annoying them with his troublesome cough. “Not an invalid, I hope, sir?” said the major, in his bluff yet kindly voice. “They tell me I can have no other fate; that my malady is fatal; but I still hope and fight for my life; it is all I have to give my country now.” A stifled sigh and a sad emphasis on the last word roused the sympathy of the girls, the interest of the major. He took another survey, and said, with a tone of satisfaction, as he marked the martial carriage of the young man, and caught a fiery glance of the half-hidden eyes,— “You are a soldier, sir?” “I was; I am nothing now but an exile, for Poland is in chains.” The words “Poland” and “exile” brought up all the pathetic stories of that unhappy country which the three listeners had ever heard, and won their interest at once. “You were in the late revolution, perhaps?” asked the major, giving the unhappy outbreak the most respectful name he could use. “From beginning to end.” “Oh, tell us about it; we felt much sympathy for you, and longed to have you win,” cried Amy, with such genuine interest and pity in her tone, it was impossible to resist. Pressing both hands upon his breast, the young man bent low, with a flush of feeling on his pale cheek, and answered eagerly,— “Ah, you are kind; it is balm to my sore heart to hear words like these. I thank you, and tell you what you will. It is but little that I do, yet I give my life, and die a long death, instead of a quick, brave one with my comrades.” “You are young to have borne a part in a revolution, sir,” said the major, who pricked up his ears like an old war-horse at the sound of battle. “My friends and myself left the University at Varsovie, as volunteers; we did our part, and now all lie in their graves but three.” “You were wounded, it seems?” “Many times. Exposure, privation, and sorrow will finish what the Russian bullets began. But it is well. I have no wish to see my country enslaved, and I can no longer help her.” “Let us hope that a happier future waits for you both. Poland loves liberty too well, and has suffered too much for it, to be kept long in captivity.” Helen spoke warmly, and the young man listened with a brightening face. “It is a kind prophecy; I accept it, and take courage. God knows I need it,” he added, low to himself.