“Kill you, my boy?” and the stranger spoke cheerily as he bent over poor Will and rubbed his clammy hands. “What should I kill _you_ for? I’ve had my eyes on you ever since yesterday evening, when I saw you creeping under the brushwood, and knew you were hunting for this cave. The ‘Refuge of Safety,’ I call it, and it has proved so to many a poor devil who like yourself has taken shelter here. I have never known one to fail of reaching the happy land when once they got so far as this, so cheer up, my man. Paul Haverill can swear a string of swears about the Yanks which will reach from here to Richmond, if necessary, and then when the hounds are thrown off the track he can turn round and save the poor hunted rascal’s life. You are among your friends, so come out from this puddle. You must be wetter than a rat. There’s a spring under the rocks, and it rises in a rain so as to fill the cave sometimes. Here, Charlie, give us that shawl, his teeth are fairly chattering.” Thus talking, the stranger, who had announced himself as Paul Haverill, led Will out to where the boy Charlie stood, holding a bright plaid shawl in his hand, and looking curiously at the worn, drooping, sorry figure emerging from the cave. It was a woman’s shawl, Will knew, but it was very soft and warm, and he wrapt it closely round him, for he was shaking with cold, and his tattered garments were wringing wet. Very few words were spoken, and those in a whisper, as they went cautiously down the mountain until they reached what seemed to be a road winding among the hills. This they did not follow, but, striking into the field or pasture land beside it, kept to the right, and at a safe distance from it, lest some straggler might be abroad, and meet them face to face. Will Mather was enough acquainted with Southern customs not to be surprised to find here in the mountain wilds a substantial and even handsome-looking building, which, with its white walls and green blinds, seemed much like the farm-houses in New England. There was a light shining from the windows, and a woman’s brisk step was heard as they went toward the door; Paul Haverill coughing, to give warning of his approach. “All right!” was the pass-word by which they entered, and Will soon stood in the wide hall which ran through the entire building, and opened in the rear upon a broad piazza. “Better take him to Miss Maude’s room,” the woman said, and Will followed on to an upper chamber, which, he would have known at once belonged to a young lady. It was not as elegantly furnished as his own sleeping apartment at home, but it bore unmistakable marks of taste and refinement; while the air of pure gentle womanhood, which pervaded it, brought Rose very vividly before him.