saint or martyr, and had won by it nothing but detraction and calumny.
Her parents were dead, her husband gone, her native land far away, her
hopes were crushed. No wonder she wept. And then the countess was out of
her sphere; as much out of her sphere in the woods of Maryland as Hans
Christian Andersen's cygnet was in the barnyard full of fowls. She was a
swan, and they took her for a deformed duck. And at last she herself
began to be vaguely conscious of this.

"Why do I remain here?" she moaned; "what strange magnetic power is it
that holds my very will, fettered here, against my reason and judgment?
That has so held me for long years? Yes, for long, weary years have I
been bound to this cross, and I am not dead yet! Heavenly Powers! what
are my nerves and brain and heart made of that I am not dead, or mad, or
criminal before this? Steel, and rock, and gutta percha, I think! Not
mere flesh and blood and bone like other women's? Oh, why do I stay
here? Why do I not go home? I have lost everything else; but I have
still a home and country left! Oh, that I could break loose! Oh, that I
could free myself! Oh, that I had the wings of a dove, for then I would
fly away and be at rest!'" she exclaimed, breaking into the pathetic
language of the Psalmist.

A voice softly stole upon her ear, a low, plaintive voice singing a
homely Scotch song:

"'Oh, it's hame, hame, hame,
Hame fain would I be;
But the wearie never win back
To their ain countrie.'"

Tears sprang again to the eyes of the countess as she caught up and