cter better than words.

He told me about the massacre, when five hundred Poles were shot down by
Cossacks in the market-place, merely because they sung their national
hymn.

'Play me that forbidden air,' I said, wishing to judge of his skill, for
I had heard him practising softly in the afternoon.

He rose willingly, then glanced about the room and gave a little shrug
which made me ask what he wanted.

'I look to see if the Baron is here. He is Russian, and to him my
national air will not be pleasing.'

'Then play it. He dare not forbid it here, and I should rather enjoy
that little insult to your bitter enemy,' said I, feeling very indignant
with everything Russian just then.

'Ah, mademoiselle, it is true we are enemies, but we are also
gentlemen,' returned the boy, proving that _he_ at least was one.

I thanked him for his lesson in politeness, and as the Baron was not
there he played the beautiful hymn, singing it enthusiastically in spite
of the danger to his weak lungs. A true musician evidently, for, as he
sung his pale face glowed, his eyes shone, and his lost vigor seemed
restored to him.

From that evening we were fast friends; for the memory of certain dear
lads at home made my heart open to this lonely boy, who gave me in
return the most grateful affection and service. He begged me to call him
'Varjo,' as his mother did. He constituted himself my escort,
errand-boy, French teacher, and private musician, making those weeks
indefinitely pleasant by his winning ways, his charming little
confidences, and faithful friendship.

We had much fun over our lessons, for I helped him about his English.
With a great interest in free America, and an intense longing to hear
about our war, the barrier of an unknown tongue did not long stand
between us.

Beginning with my bad French and his broken English, we got on
capitally; but he outdid me entirely, making astonishing progress,
though he often slapped his forehead with the despairing exclamation,--

'I am imbecile! I never can will shall to have learn this beast of
English!'

But he did, and in a month had added a new language to the five he
already possessed.

His music was the delight of the house; and he often gave us little
concerts with the help of Madame Teiblin, a German St. Cecilia, with a
cropped head and a gentlemanly sack, cravat, and collar. Both were
enthusiasts, and the longer they played the more inspired they got. The
piano vibrated, th