if he had
counted on anything, which he probably had not, it was that the man
would not run after them for any length of time, leaving his fast horse
to stand in the road.

Finally, the girl and boy both dropped down on the ground. The long May
twilight was past, still they could see the outlines of each other's
forms, and Ambrose could hear the beating of the girl's heart against
her frock like the fluttering of an imprisoned moth.

He could not help reassuring her. "You're safe, sis, don't worry," he
drawled. "Keep still and maybe in a minute I'll find some water."

But she would not let him leave her, and tagged along until they finally
discovered a little stream. Then, as Ambrose had some stale bread in his
pocket, together they feasted for a short time, when, as the moon of the
night before had come out again a trifle larger, Ambrose decided to
inquire concerning his companion's plans. She now seemed entirely
peaceful, and, though rested, had made no mention of moving along.
However, for some time longer he watched her with that solemn stare of
his. She was chattering gayly enough about nothing ("there was never a
time when a female wouldn't be able to talk," he thought), but by and
by she _must_ be interrupted.

"I wonder now," he said when there was no longer any sound either of
fear or fatigue in her voice, "if you would kindly be tellin' me which
way you would like to be goin' and what friends you was plannin' to run
to to-night when I picked you up back on the road? I ain't to say
acquainted with this part of the country, but I reckon I can help to
find them. It's gettin' late and I ain't easy in my mind about Liza."

For some absurd reason he felt himself placed upon the defensive.

The girl was shaking her head. "I ain't no friend but you."

Ambrose whistled. "Well, bein's as I am what one might call a recently
adopted friend, maybe you'll so much as tell me where you're thinkin' of
spendin' the night."

"I ain't thinkin'," was the answer, and at this Ambrose swore softly,
though you may count on his having sworn under his breath.

"Look here, you got to tell me a straight story. I ought to 'a' made you
before," he confessed. "I reckon I knew you were runnin' away from that
orphan asylum and I kind of wanted to help, even more when that fellow
came after you, but we can't go traipsin' around all night, and I got to
find Liza. You oughtn't to have run away from a good asylum if you
hadn't no friend