hus but a moment when a slight
rustling noise startled her; she remembered the rattlesnakes, and was
springing to her feet; but hearing a low sound, as of some one
breathing, turned her eyes in the direction from which it came, and saw,
only a few yards from her, the figure of a man stretched upon the
ground, apparently asleep. She went towards it with a careful step, and
before she could see the face, the large straw hat and the long,
blanched, wavy hair betrayed the identity of the individual. Mr.
Phillips was, or appeared to be, sleeping; his head was pillowed upon
his arm, his eyes were closed, and his attitude denoted perfect repose.
Gertrude stood still and looked at him. As she did so, his countenance
suddenly changed; the peaceful expression gave place to the same unhappy
look which had at first excited her sympathy. His lips moved, and in his
dreams he spoke, or rather shouted, "No! no! no!" each time that he
repeated the word pronouncing it with more emphasis; then wildly
throwing one arm above his head he let it fall heavily upon the ground,
and, the excitement subsiding from his face, he uttered the simply
words, "_Oh, dear!_" much as a grieved and tired child might do as he
leans his head upon his mother's knee.

Gertrude was deeply touched. She forgot that he was a stranger; she
only saw a sufferer. An insect lit upon his fair, open forehead; she
leaned over him, brushed it away, and, as she did so, one of her tears
fell upon his cheek. He awoke, and looked full in the face of the
embarrassed girl, who started, and would have hastened away; but,
leaning on his elbow, he caught her hand and detained her. He gazed at
her a moment without speaking; then said, in a grave voice, "My child,
did you shed that tear for me?"

She did not reply, except by her eyes, which were still glistening with
the dew of sympathy.

"I believe you _did_," said he, "and from my heart I bless you! But
never again weep for a stranger. You will have woes enough of your own
if you live to be my age."

"If I had not had sorrows," said Gertrude, "I should not know how to
feel for others; if I had not often wept for myself I should not weep
now for you."

"But you are happy?"

"Yes."

"Some find it easy to forget the past."

"_I_ have not forgotten it."

"Children's griefs are trifles, and you are still scarce more than a
child."

"I _never_ was a child," said Gertrude.

"Strange girl!" soliloquised her companion. "Will y