wearily. I offered my rug, insisting that she was not properly clad for a
journey over the mountains at night. She refused gently but firmly, and
closed her eyes again, resting her head against the dividing cushion. For
a moment I watched her; then arose from my seat, and, pulling down my
bundle of shawls, begged that I might spread my heaviest rug over her lap.
An angry color mounted to her cheeks. She turned upon me, and was about to
refuse indignantly, when I interrupted:--

"'Please allow me; don't you know you cannot sleep if you are cold? Let
me put this wrap about you. I have two.'

"With the unrolling, the leather tablet of the shawl-strap, bearing my
name, fell in her lap.

"'Your name is Bosk,' she said, with a quick start, 'and you an American?'

"'Yes; why not?'

"'My maiden name is Boski,' she replied, looking at me in astonishment,
'and I am a Pole.'

"Here were two mysteries solved. She was married, and neither Italian nor
Slav.

"'And your ancestry?' she continued with increased animation. 'Are you of
Polish blood? You know our name is a great name in Poland. Your
grandfather, of course, was a Pole.' Then, with deep interest, 'What are
your armorial bearings?'

"I answered that I had never heard that my grandfather was a Pole. It was