and when shown her half the barn,
which, as she was a Marine, was very properly the bay, Mark explained,
she scouted the idea of being nervous or timid in such rude quarters,
made herself a cosy nest and bade her brother a merry good night.

More weary than she would confess, Sylvia fell asleep at once, despite
the novelty of her situation and the noises that fill a summer night
with fitful rustlings and tones. How long she slept she did not know,
but woke suddenly and sat erect with that curious thrill which sometimes
startles one out of deepest slumber, and is often the forerunner of some
dread or danger. She felt this hot tingle through blood and nerves, and
stared about her thinking of fire. But everything was dark and still,
and after waiting a few moments she decided that her nest had been too
warm, for her temples throbbed and her cheeks were feverish with the
close air of the barn half filled with new-made hay.

Creeping up a fragrant slope she spread her plaid again and lay down
where a cool breath flowed through wide chinks in the wall. Sleep was
slowly returning when the rustle of footsteps scared it quite away and
set her heart beating fast, for they came toward the new couch she had
chosen. Holding her breath she listened. The quiet tread drew nearer and
nearer till it paused within a yard of her, then some one seemed to
throw themselves down, sigh heavily a few times and grow still as if
falling asleep.

"It is Mark," thought Sylvia, and whispered his name, but no one
answered, and from the other corner of the barn she heard her brother
muttering in his sleep. Who was it, then? Mark had said there were no
cattle near, she was sure neither of her comrades had left their
bivouac, for there was her brother talking as usual in his dreams; some
one seemed restless and turned often with decided motion, that was
Warwick, she thought, while the quietest sleeper of the three betrayed
his presence by laughing once with the low-toned merriment she
recognized as Moor's. These discoveries left her a prey to visions of
grimy strollers, maudlin farm-servants, and infectious emigrants in
dismal array. A strong desire to cry out possessed her for a moment, but
was checked; for with all her sensitiveness Sylvia had much common
sense, and that spirit which hates to be conquered even by a natural
fear. She remembered her scornful repudiation of the charge of timidity,
and the endless jokes she would have to undergo if her