"It won't do to stay long," said Fred, "for it must be 'most sunrise; and we should be in a pretty fix if anybody should go by and catch us." It was only one o'clock! The boards were not as soft as feathers, by any means, but the boys thought they wouldn't have minded that if they could only have had a blanket to spread over them. More forlorn than the "babes in the wood," they had not even the prospect that any birds would come and cover them with leaves. As they stretched themselves upon the boards, Willy thought of his prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep." Never, since he could remember, had he gone to bed without that. Would it do to say it now? Would God hear him? Ah, but would it do _not_ to say it? So he breathed it softly to himself, lest Fred should hear and laugh at him. It was so cold that Fred declared he couldn't shut his eyes, and shouldn't dare to, either; but in less than a minute both the boys were fast asleep. They had slept about three hours, without stirring or even dreaming, when they were suddenly wakened by the glare of a tin lantern shining in their eyes, and a gruff voice calling out,-- "Who's this? How came you here?" Willy stared at the man without speaking. Was it to-night, or last night, or to-morrow night? Fred had not yet opened his eyes, and the worthy farmer was obliged to shake him for half a minute before he was fairly aroused. "Who are you? What are you here for?" repeated he. Then the boys sat upright on the boards and looked at each other. They were both covered with a thick coating of frost, as white as if they had been out in a snowstorm. What should they say to the man? It would never do to tell him their real names, for then he would very likely know who their fathers were, and send them straight home. Dear! dear! What a pity they happened to fall asleep! And why need the man have come out there in the night with a lantern?--a man who probably had a bed of his own to sleep in. "I--I--" said Willy, brushing the frost off his knees; and that is probably as far as he would have gone with his speech, for his tongue failed him entirely; but Fred, being afraid he might tell the whole truth,--which was a bad habit of Willy's,--gave him a sly poke in the side, as a hint to stop. Willy couldn't and wouldn't make up a wrong story; but Fred could, and there was nothing he enjoyed more. "Well, sir," said he, clearing his throat, and looking up at the farmer with a face of baby-like innocence, "I guess you don't know me--do you? My name's Johnny Quirk, and this boy here's my brother, Sammy Quirk." Willy drew back a little. It seemed as if he himself had been telling a lie. Ah! and wasn't it next thing to it? "Quirk? Quirk? I don't know any Quirks round in these parts," said the farmer.