change made between men meeting as strangers, when
they wish to become friends."

There was no answer to this. "Well?" said John, after a little.

"I have been thinking--I mean I call myself William Leslie."

"And is that your name?" asked John gravely.

"Yes, it is my name. It is not all of my name. But what does it matter
in this new country? My name is nothing to any one."

"But it is something to yourself. I havena a fine name, but it was my
father's before me, and my grandfather's, and I wouldna change it to be
called a lord," said John gravely. "My lad, I hope you have done
nothing to make you afraid or ashamed to own your name?"

"I have done nothing that I wouldna do again, ten times over, if it
would give me my revenge!" he cried, raising himself up, while his eyes
flashed angrily. "It is not for shame, but for safety that I wish to
have my name forgotten, and--for Allie's sake."

He lay down again, and after the anger, the tears came. Then John did
an extraordinary thing. When he stooped to arrange the plaid over his
friend, he kissed him on his lips and on his closed eyelids. Then he
rose and turned his back upon him.

While he stood thus the rain began to fall, the first drops of a summer
shower, which promised to be a heavy one. What was to be done now?
Where were they to find shelter? John ran up the hill to the other side
of the grove and looked northward toward the threatening clouds, and
down over a wide landscape, which even the glooming clouds could not
make otherwise than fair. There were fields of grass and grain
stretching as far as the eye could reach. There were men at work among
the hay, piling high the long wagons, in haste to get it to shelter
before the rain came on. A white farmhouse, half hidden by trees, stood
near, and great barns with doors wide open, waiting for the coming of
the wagons. It did not need a minute for John to take all this in, and
in another he was speeding down the hill and over the meadow with his
friend in his arms, nor did he pause till he had laid him in one of the
barns on a bed of fragrant hay.

"I must go back for the plaid and the basket," said he; and stooping
down, he added gently: "My lad, if any one should ask your name, mind
that you are Willie Bain."

He came back as a great load of hay drew up at the barn door.

"Drive right in under cover, Sam," said the farmer, who followed. "I
expect we'll have to leave it here. We can't un