There was nothing in his personal appearance to awaken sympathy on the score of ill-treatment, and yet Maude felt herself strangely drawn toward him, guessing with a woman’s quick perception that he was somewhat above many whom it had been her privilege to befriend. And Maude, being human, did not like him less for that. On the contrary, she the more readily brushed away the flies which were alighting upon his face, and with her own handkerchief, wiped the moisture from his brow, and then felt his rapid pulse. “He ought not to stay in this place,” she said, and she was revolving the propriety of boldly asking Squire Tunbridge if he might be removed to the house, when Tom awoke and turned wonderingly toward her. He knew it was Maude De Vere, and something in her face riveted his attention, making him wonder where he had seen somebody very like her. “You are sick,” she said to him kindly, as he attempted to rise on his elbow, and fell back again upon the squalid bed. “I am afraid you are very sick, but you are safe here,—that is,—yes,—I know you are safe. None but fiends would betray a sick man.” She spoke rapidly, and Tom saw the bright color deepen in her cheek, and her eyes flash with excitement. She was very beautiful, and Tom felt the influence of her beauty, and tried to draw the ragged quilt over him so as to hide the coarse, grey shirt Hetty had given him, and which was as unlike the immaculate linen Tom Carleton was accustomed to wear as it was possible to be. “You are Miss De Vere, I’m sure,” he said, “and you are very kind. I shall not tax your hospitality long. I hope to go on to-night. Don’t stay here, Miss De Vere; you must be uncomfortable. It’s hotter here than in Massachusetts.” “You are from New England, then?” Maude asked, and Tom replied: “From Boston,—yes,—your people hate us most of all I believe,” and Tom tried to smile, while Maude answered him, “It makes no difference to me whether you are from Maine or Oregon. You are sick and have come to us for succor. I’ll do what I can to help you.” With the last words she was gone, her tall, lithe figure bending gracefully under the low doorway, and the rustle of her fresh, clean garments leaving a pleasant sound in Tom Carleton’s ears. * * * * *