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Casimer would have become desperate had he seen her in the little blue wrapper, with her bright hair loose on her shoulders, and her pretty face wet with tears, as she dropped her spoon to seize his flowers,–three dewy roses, one a bud, one half and the other fully blown, making a fragrant record and avowal of the love which she must renounce.

“Oh, my dear boy! how can I give him up, when he is so fond, and I am all he has? Helen, uncle must let me write or go to mamma. She shall decide; I can’t; and no one else has a right to part us,” sobbed Amy, over her roses.

“Casimer will not marry, dear; he is too generous to ask such a sacrifice,” began Helen, but Amy cried indignantly,–

“It is no sacrifice; I’m rich. What do I care for his poverty?”

“His religion!” hinted Helen, anxiously.

“It need not part us; we can believe what we will. He is good; why mind whether he is Catholic or Protestant?”

“But a Pole, Amy, so different in tastes, habits, character, and beliefs. It is a great risk to marry a foreigner; races are so unlike.”

“I don’t care if he is a Tartar, a Calmuck, or any of the other wild tribes; I love him, he loves me, and no one need object if I don’t.”

“But, dear, the great and sad objection still remains–his health. He just said he had but a little while to live.”

Amy’s angry eyes grew dim, but she answered, with soft earnestness,–

“So much the more need of me to make that little while happy. Think how much he has suffered and done for others; surely I may do something for him. Oh, Nell, can I let him die alone and in exile, when I have both heart and home to give him?”

Helen could say no more; she kissed and comforted the faithful little soul, feeling all the while such sympathy and tenderness that she wondered at herself, for with this interest in the love of another came a sad sense of loneliness, as if she was denied the sweet experience that every woman longs to know.

Amy never could remain long under a cloud, and seeing Helen’s tears, began to cheer both her cousin and herself.

“Hoffman said he might live with care, don’t you remember? and Hoffman knows the case better than we. Let us ask him if Casimer is worse. You do it; I can’t without betraying myself.”

“I will,” and Helen felt grateful for any pretext to address a friendly word to Karl, who had looked sad of late, and had been less with them since the major became absorbed in Mrs. Cumberland.

Leaving Amy to compose herself, Helen went away to find Hoffman. It was never difficult, for he seemed to divine her wishes and appear uncalled the moment he was wanted. Hardly had she reached her favorite nook in the garden when he approached with letters, and asked with respectful anxiety, as she glanced at and threw them by with an impatient sigh,–

“Has mademoiselle any orders? Will the ladies drive, sail, or make a little expedition? It is fine, and mademoiselle looks as if the air would refresh her. Pardon that I make the suggestion.”

“No, Hoffman, I don’t like the air of this place, and intend to leave as soon as possible.” And Helen knit her delicate dark brows with an expression of great determination. “Switzerland is the refuge of political exiles, and I hate plots and disguises; I feel oppressed by some mystery, and mean to solve or break away from it at once.”

She stopped abruptly, longing to ask his help, yet withheld by a sudden sense of shyness in approaching the subject, though she had decided to speak to Karl of the Pole.

“Can I serve you, mademoiselle? If so, pray command me,” he said, eagerly, coming a step nearer.

“You can, and I intend to ask your advice, for there can be nothing amiss in doing so, since you are a friend of Casimer’s.”