one and
put it through the rag, and then you can tipple like a king upon
his throne."

He selected a stout barley straw, and finding a knot in it
endeavored to perforate the obstruction with a pin. When this
failed he looked about for another straw, and at last discovered
one that was strong, uninterrupted by knots, and sufficiently
long to serve his purpose.

For awhile he was so engrossed in his occupation that the child
remained unnoticed. But when the straw had been adjusted
satisfactorily, and the apparatus was in working order, as Iver
ascertained by testing it himself, then he looked round at his
charge.

The babe was lying silent and motionless.

His heart stood still.

"It is dead! It is going to die! It will become a wanderer!" he
exclaimed; and putting down the feeding bottle, snatched up the
lantern, crept on his knees to the child, and brought the little
face within the radius of the sickly yellow light.

"I cannot see! O, I can see nothing! There is no light worth
having!" he gasped, and proceeded to open the door in the lantern
side.

"What is do be done?" he asked despairingly. "I do not know if it
be dying or be in a fit. O! live! do, do live! I'll give you a
brass button and some twine out of my pocket! I promise you my
next lollipops if you will. Nasty, cross, disobliging thing."
He went to the barn door and looked out, saw that the rain was
coming down in torrents, came back. "Is it true," asked he,
"that you must be a wanderer, if you die unchristened? Shall I
ever hear you yowling in the wind? It is too, too dreadful!"

A chill came over the boy's heart.

Iver had never seen death. He was vastly frightened at the thought
that the little soul might fleet away whilst he was watching. He
dared not leave the child. He was afraid to stay. If he were to
desert the babe, and it expired--and to run home, would not the
soul come crying and flapping after him?

He considered with his hands to his head.

"I know what I will do!" exclaimed he, suddenly; "I'll make a
Christian of it, anyhow."

There was standing on the floor an old broken red bowl of coarse
pottery, out of which fowls had been fed. It was now empty.

Iver took it, wiped it out with his hand, and went with it to
the door, where a rude "launder" or shoot of wood carried the
water from the thatch immediately over the door, and sent the
collected moisture in a stream down one side. The boy held the
vessel under the shoot till