"Poor fellow!" she murmured--"his face is quite pale--and--ah----!" she broke off with a sudden gasp, and bent forward; a wasp, which had been buzzing around his head for some time, swept his cheek. Too fearful of waking him to sweep the insect aside, she knelt and watched with clasped hands and shrinking heart; so intent in her dread that the wasp should alight on his cheek and sting him as almost to have forgotten her fear that he should awake. At last the dreaded climax occurred; the wasp settled on his lips; with a low, smothered cry, she stretched out her hand, and, with a quick movement, swept the wasp off. But, lightly as her finger had touched his lips, it had been sufficient to wake him, and, with a little start, he opened his eyes, and received into them, and through them to his heart the girl's rapt gaze. For a minute neither moved; he lest he should break the dream; she, because, bird-like, she was fascinated; then, the minute passed, she rose, and drew back, and glided into the brake. The Savage with a wild throb of the heart, saw that his dream had grown into life, raised himself on his elbow and looked after her, and, as he did so, his eye caught a small basket which she had set down beside him. "Stay," he called, and in so gentle a voice that his friends who had christened him the Savage would have instantly changed it to the Dove. "Stay! Please stay. Your basket." "Why did you run from me?" asked the Savage, in a low voice. "Did you think that I should hurt you?" "Hurt me? No, why should you?" and her eyes met his with innocent surprise. "Why should I, indeed! I should have been very sorry if you had gone, because I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night." "You have not to thank me," she said, slowly. "Yes," he assented, quietly. "But for you----" then he stopped, remembering that it was scarcely correct to complain of her father's inhospitality; "I behaved very badly. I always do," he added--for the first time in his life with regret. "Do you?" she said, doubtfully. "You were wet and tired last night, and--and you must not think ill of my father; he----" "Don't say another word. I was treated better than I deserved." "Why did you go without breakfast this morning?" she said, suddenly. "I brought it with me," he replied. "You forgot the loaf!" and he smiled. "Dry bread!" she said, pityingly. "I am so sorry. If I had but known, I would have brought you some milk." "Oh, I have done very well," he said, his curt way softened and toned down. "And now you are going to Arkdale?" she said, gently. "That is, after I have gone to rest for a little while longer; I am in no hurry; won't you sit down, Una? Keep me company." To her there seemed nothing strange in the speech; gravely and naturally she sat down at the foot of an oak. "You think the forest is lonely?" she said. "I do, most decidedly. Don't you?" "No; but that is because I am used to it and have known no other place."