One evening, just before sunset, grown sleepy in spite of the gathering cold, he sat down on one of the two steep grassy slopes that bordered the road. His feet were bare now, bare and brown, for his shoes had come to such plight that it was a relief to throw them away; but his soles had grown like leather. They rested in the dry shallow rain-channel, and his body leaned back against the slope. Abdiel, instead of jumping on the bank and lying in the soft grass, lay down on the leathery feet, and covered them from the night with his long faithful body and its coat of tangled hair. The sun was shooting his last radiance along the road, and its redness caressed the sleeping companions, when an elderly lady came to her gate at the top of the opposite slope, and looked along the road with the sun. Her reverting glance fell upon the sleepers--the Knight of Hope lying in rags, not marble, his feet not upon his dog, but his dog upon his feet. It was a touching picture, and the old lady’s heart was one easily touched. She looked and saw that the face of the boy, whose hunger was as plain as his rags, was calm as the wintry sky. She wondered, but she needed not have wondered; for storm of anger, drought of greed, nor rotting mist of selfishness, had passed or rested there, to billow, or score, or waste. Her mere glance seemed to wake Abdiel, who took advantage of his waking to have a lick at the brown, dusty, brave, uncomplaining feet, so well used to the world’s _via dolorosa_. She saw, and was touched yet more by this ministration of the guardian of the feet. Gently opening the gate, she descended the slope, crossed the road, and stood silent, regarding the outcasts. No cloudy blanket covered the sky: ere morning the dew would lie frozen on the grass! “You shouldn’t be sleeping there!” she said. Abdiel started to his four feet and would have snarled, but with one look at the lady changed his mind. Clare half awoke, half sat up, made an inarticulate murmur, and fell back again. “Get up, my boy,” said the old lady. “You must indeed!” “Oh, please, ma’am, must I?” answered Clare, slowly rising to his feet. “I had but just lain down, and I’m so tired!--If I mayn’t sleep _there_,” he continued, “where _am_ I to sleep?--Please, ma’am, why is everybody so set against letting a boy sleep? It don’t cost them anything! I can understand not giving him work, if he looks too much in want of it; but why should they count it bad of him to lie down and sleep?” The lady wisely let him talk; not until he stopped did she answer him. “It’s because of the frost, my boy!” she said. “It would be the death of you to sleep out of doors to-night!” “It’s a nice place for it, ma’am!” “To sleep in? Certainly not!” “I didn’t mean that, ma’am. I meant a nice place to go away from--to die in, ma’am!” “That is not ours to choose,” answered the old lady severely, but the tone of her severity trembled.