Elizabeth felt a trifle uncomfortable.  Was the dear young man tilting at the idle rich—­and the corrupt Old World?  She stole a glance at him, but perceived only that in his own tanned and sunburnt way he was a remarkably handsome well-made fellow, built on a rather larger scale than the Canadians she had so far seen.  A farmer?  His manners were not countrified.  But a farmer in Canada or the States may be of all social grades.

By this time they had reached the emigrant car, the conductor of which was standing on the steps.  He was loth to allow Lady Merton to enter, but Elizabeth persisted.  Her companion led the way, pushing through a smoking group of dark-faced men hanging round the entrance.

Inside, the car was thick, indeed, with smoke and the heavy exhalations of the night.  Men and women were sitting on the wooden benches; some women were cooking in the tiny stove-room attached to the car; children, half naked and unwashed, were playing on the floor; here and there a man was still asleep; while one old man was painfully conning a paper of “Homestead Regulations” which had been given him at Montreal, a lad of eighteen helping him; and close by another lad was writing a letter, his eyes passing dreamily from the paper to the Canadian landscape outside, of which he was clearly not conscious.  In a corner, surrounded by three or four other women, was the mother they had come to seek.  She held a wailing baby of about a year old in her arms.  At the sight of Elizabeth, the child stopped its wailing, and lay breathing fast and feebly, its large bright eyes fixed on the new-comer.  The mother turned away abruptly.  It was not unusual for persons from the parlour-cars to ask leave to walk through the emigrants’.

But Elizabeth’s companion said a few words to her, apparently in Russian, and Elizabeth, stooping over her, held out the milk.  Then a dark face reluctantly showed itself, and great black eyes, in deep, lined sockets; eyes rather of a race than a person, hardly conscious, hardly individualised, yet most poignant, expressing some feeling, remote and inarticulate, that roused Elizabeth’s.  She called to the conductor for a cup and a spoon; she made her way into the malodorous kitchen, and got some warm water and sugar; then kneeling by the child, she put a spoonful of the diluted and sweetened milk into the mother’s hand.

* * * * *

“Was it foolish of me to offer her that money?” said Elizabeth with flushed cheeks as they walked back through the rain.  “They looked so terribly poor.”

The Canadian smiled.

“I daresay it didn’t do any harm,” he said indulgently.  “But they are probably not poor at all.  The Galicians generally bring in quite a fair sum.  And after a year or two they begin to be rich.  They never spend a farthing they can help.  It costs money—­or time—­to be clean, so they remain dirty.  Perhaps we shall teach them—­after a bit.”