They, of course, did not even remotely suspect
their own cruelty. He had, in his enthusiasm
for the day allowed himself to forget that
he was not made of the same clay as they were,
that he was an exile and a stranger, and must
ever remain so, that he had no right to share
their joy in the blessing of liberty. Edith had
taken pains to dispel the happy illusion, and had
sent him once more whirling toward his cold
native Pole. His passion came near choking
him, and, to conceal his impetuous emotion, he
flung himself down on the piano-stool, and struck
some introductory chords with perhaps a little
superfluous emphasis. Suddenly his voice burst
out into the Swedish national anthem, "Our
Land, our Land, our Fatherland," and the air
shook and palpitated with strong martial melody.
His indignation, his love and his misery,
imparted strength to his voice, and its occasional
tremble in the PIANO passages was something
more than an artistic intention. He was loudly
applauded as he arose, and the young ladies
thronged about him to ask if he "wouldn't
please write out the music for them."

Thus month after month passed by, and every
day brought its own misery. Mrs. Van Kirk's
patronizing manners, and ostentatious kindness,
often tested his patience to the utmost. If he
was guilty of an innocent witticism or a little