If August Bopp had been an Englishman, he would have felt much, but
said less on that account; if he had been an American, he would have
tried to conceal his poverty, and impress the family with his past
grandeur, present importance, or future prospects; being a German,
he showed exactly what he was, with the childlike frankness of his
race. Having had no dinner, he ate heartily of what was offered him;
being cold, he basked in the generous warmth; being homesick and
solitary, he enjoyed the genial influences that surrounded him, and
told his story, sure of sympathy; for even in prosaic Yankeedom he
had found it, as travellers find Alpine flowers among the snow.

It was a simple story of a laborious boyhood, being early left an
orphan, with a little sister dependent on him, till an opening in
America tempted him to leave her and come to try and earn a home for
her and for himself. Sickness, misfortune, and disappointment had
been his companions for a year; but he still worked, still hoped,
and waited for the happy hour when little Ulla should come to him
across the sea. This was all; yet as he told it, with the magical
accompaniments of gesture, look, and tone, it seemed full of pathos
and romance to his listeners, whose faces proved their interest more
flatteringly than their words.

Mrs. Ward mended the torn coat with motherly zeal, and gave it many
of those timely stitches which thrifty women love to sew. The twins
devoted themselves to their guest, each in a characteristic manner.
Dick, as host, offered every article of refreshment the house
afforded, goaded the fire to a perpetual roar, and discussed
gymnastics, with bursts of boyish admiration for the grace and skill
of his new leader, whom he christened King of Clubs on the spot.