tired out perhaps by long journeying, and soothed by the noise of the
train? Or were there hearts among them aching for some poor hovel left
behind, for a dead child in a Carpathian graveyard?--for a lover?--a
father?--some bowed and wrinkled Galician peasant whom the next winter
would kill? And were the strong, swarthy men dreaming of wealth, of the
broad land waiting, the free country, and the equal laws?

* * * * *

Elizabeth awoke. It was light in her little room. The train was at a
standstill. Winnipeg?

A subtle sense of something wrong stole upon her. Why this murmur of
voices round the train? She pushed aside a corner of the blind beside
her. Outside a railway cutting, filled with misty rain--many persons
walking up and down, and a babel of talk--

Bewildered, she rang for her maid, an elderly and precise person who
had accompanied her on many wanderings.

"Simpson, what's the matter? Are we near Winnipeg?"

"We've been standing here for the last two hours, my lady. I've been
expecting to hear you ring long ago."

Simpson's tone implied that her mistress had been somewhat crassly
sleeping while more sensitive persons had been awake and suffering.

Elizabeth rubbed her eyes. "But what's wrong, Simpson, and where are
we?"