And as for her; well, she appeared pleased to have met with this unexpected companion; and she was very cheerful and talkative as they went down to the quay, these two together.  And whether it was that she was glad to be relieved from the cramped position of the carriage, or whether it was that his being taller than she gave countenance to her height, or whether it was merely that she rejoiced in the sweet air and the exhilaration of the sunlight, she seemed to walk with even more than her usual proudness of gait.  This circumstance did not escape the eye of her father, who was immediately behind.

“Natalie,” said he, peevishly, “you are walking as if you wore a sword by your side.”

She did not seem sorely hurt.

“‘Du Schwert an meiner Linken!’” she said, with a laugh.  “It is my military cloak that makes you think so, papa.”

Why, even this cockle-shell of a steamer looked quite inviting on so pleasant a morning.  And there before them stretched the blue expanse of the sea, with every wave, and every ripple on every wave, flashing a line of silver in the sunlight.  No sooner were they out of the yellow-green waters of the harbor than Mr. Brand had his companions conducted on to the bridge between the paddle-boxes; and the little crop-haired French boy brought them camp-stools, and their faces were turned toward England.

“Ah!” said Natalie, “many a poor wretch has breathed more freely when at last he found himself looking out for the English shore.  Do you remember old Anton Pepczinski and his solemn toast, papa?”

She turned to George Brand.

“He was an old Polish gentleman, who used to come to our house in the evening, he and a few others of his countrymen, to smoke and play chess.  But always, some time during the evening, he would say, ’Gentlemen, a Pole is never ungrateful.  I call on you to drink this toast:  To the white chalk-line beyond the sea!’” And then she added, quickly, “If I were English, how proud I should be of England!”

“But why?” he said.

“Because she has kept liberty alive in Europe,” said the girl, proudly; “because she offers an exile to the oppressed, no matter from whence they come; because she says to the tyrant, ‘No, you cannot follow.’  Why, when even your beer-men your dray-men know how to treat a Haynau, what must the spirit of the country be?  If only those fine fellows could have caught Windischgratz too!”

Her father laughed at her vehemence; Brand did not.  That strange vibration in the girl’s voice penetrated him to the heart.

“But then,” said he, after a second or two, “I have been amusing myself for some days back by reading a good deal of political writing, mostly by foreigners; and if I were to believe what they say, I should take it that England was the most superstitious, corrupt, enslaved nation on the face of the earth!  What with its reverence for rank, its worship of the priesthood—­oh, I cannot tell you what a frightful country it is!”