Beside her lay her carpet bag and a brown shawl.

On her lap was an orange, and she held a crumpled paper bag of biscuits in her hand.

There was nothing unusual about her.

She was just one instance of heartbreak, the heart-break of a whole nation which loves home as no other people have ever loved it, and yet are doomed, as it seems inevitably, to leave it.

She was just one more waif thrown into the whirlpool of the great world to toil and struggle, succeed barrenly or pitifully fail; but through it all, through even the possible loss of faith and ultimate degradation, fated to cling to a love for the gray desolate fatherland.