a good long sleep; reckon he won't wake up till
sunset. If you'll allow, miss, I'll run up and look for Di."

Anne saw that he intended to go, whether she wished it or not: the lazy
fellow was fond of his wife. She gave her consent, therefore, on the
condition that he would return speedily, and telling him of the dead
soldier, suggested that when Farmer Redd returned the two men should go
up the mountain together and bury him. Was there a burial-ground or
church-yard in the neighborhood?

No; July knew of none; each family buried its dead on its own ground,
"in a corner of a meddar." He went away, and Anne sat down to keep the
watch.

She moved the long plume to and fro, refraining from even looking at the
sleeper, lest by some occult influence he might feel the gaze and waken.
Mrs. Redd's clock in another room struck five. The atmosphere grew
breathless; the flies became tenacious, almost adhesive; the heat was
intense. She knew that a thunder-storm must be near, but from where she
sat she could not see the sky, and she was afraid to stop the motion of
the waving fan. Each moment she hoped to hear the sound of July's
returning footsteps, or those of the Redds, but none came. Then at last
with a gust and a whirl of hot sand the stillness was broken, and the
storm was upon them. She ran to close the doors, but happily the sleeper
was not awakened. The flies retreated to the ceiling, and she stood
looking at the black rushing rain. The thunder was not loud, but the
lightning was almost incessant. She now hoped that in the cooler air his
sleep would be even deeper than before.

But when the storm had sobered down into steady soft gray rain, so that
she could open the doors again, she heard a voice speaking her name:

"Anne."

She turned. Heathcote was awake, and gazing at her, almost as he had
gazed in health.

Summoning all her self-possession, yet feeling drearily, unshakenly
sure, even during the short instant of crossing the floor, that no
matter what he might say (and perhaps he would say nothing), she should
not swerve, and that this little moment, with all its pain and all its
sweetness, would, for all its pain and all its sweetness, soon be gone,
she sat down by the bedside, and taking up the fan, said, quietly:

"I am glad you are so much better. As the fever has not returned, in a
week or two you may hope to be quite strong again. Do not try to talk,
please. I will fan you to sleep."

"Very well," repl