"That's right," said my father, "go to sleep again, I'll send the doctor to you, and he, together with Mrs. Teague, will soon make you well." He left the room as he spoke. Deborah looked keenly at me. "You'll soon git well, Maaster Roger," she said presently. "I think I shall," I replied, "I am far from dead yet." "Iss, iss," she repeated, "you'll soon git well, Maaster Roger, but old Deborah was right. The storm and the stranger comed together, ded'n um?" I did not answer. "Maaster Roger must be of good heart," she continued, "for he ain't a seed the end of this ere matter yet." I asked her to explain herself, but she would not. She sat silently by my bedside until the doctor came and gave me a sleeping draught, after which I remembered nothing for a long while. I lay in my bed for more than a week. During that time my mother came to see me twice, while Wilfred came only once. Evidently they did not care much about my recovery. I was grieved at this, for in my heart I loved them sincerely. My father told me, however, that Ruth Morton was recovering, and was anxiously looking forward to the time when she would be able to see me, and thank me for what I had done. In spite of this, however, I did not ask many questions about her, and when, after some days, I was pronounced well enough to see her, I cannot say I looked forward with any pleasure to our meeting. Perhaps the reason for this was that I hated to be thanked, or perhaps it was that I did not like talking to girls, but be that as it may I was in no happy frame of mind when my father led me to the room where she sat. I remember that my blood rushed to my face as for the first time I saw the one I had probably saved from death. Perhaps my sadness foreboded the dark days that came afterwards. CHAPTER V THE SHAPING OF EVENTS The brave man is not he who feels no fear; For that were stupid and irrational; But he whose noble soul its fear subdues And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from. --_Joanna Baillie._ Ruth Morton was fourteen years of age, but looked far younger. To me she appeared only a child of twelve. She was diminutive in stature, and had an innocent childish face. I did not think her beautiful, and yet I remember that her face was pleasing. I remember, too, that her mouth looked very sensitive, and was indicative of a gentle nature; but what struck me most were her eyes. They were large and grey, and seemed to contain a world of meaning. Her hair was dark brown and fell in heavy masses on her shoulders. She looked at me curiously, as if striving to read my character, and when my father mentioned my name she timidly held out her little hand. "You must be friends," said he; "indeed, you must be brother and sister, and I shall look to you, Roger, to take care of her."