She often walked through the woods, near nightfall, to meet Christern. One evening, as the two were returning together to their hut, they saw a large wild boar approaching, followed by several young ones. As this creature is very savage when it has its young to defend, Christern and Sybil thought it wise to step aside among the trees, and leave the path to the boar and its interesting family. After these had passed they continued their way, but had not gone far when they saw a young boar lying in the path. Christern stooped over to examine it. [Illustration: THE BOAR FAMILY.] “It got in with that litter,” said he, “and did not belong to it, so the old boar has gored it badly. But it is not dead. I’ll take it home, make a sty for it, and, if it lives, I’ll fatten it, and kill it when it is fit for eating.” The wounded animal lifted an appealing glance to Sybil. Its eyes wore an almost human expression of suffering, and a most beseeching plea for help. The girl’s heart was touched. “It is not badly hurt,” she said. “Its flesh is torn, but if I wash its wounds, and bind them up, and find a nice place in the woods, where I can make it comfortable, and feed it, it will get well. It is a free, wild creature, and must not be shut up in a close sty. Think of my dear brother shut up when he wants to be free!” Christern thought Sybil’s plan a foolish one, but this last argument silenced him. He had not a word to say in reply. So the girl washed off the blood from the boar’s wounds with her fine cambric handkerchief, which she then tore into strips to bind them up. She found, in a secluded place, a soft cushion of moss on which she laid him, and partly covered him with leaves to keep him warm. She then brought from the hut some of her own scanty supper, and gave it to the little boar. After this she visited her patient two or three times a day, nursing and feeding him. But, on the afternoon of the fourth day, he had disappeared, and Sybil returned to the hut feeling quite lonely at the loss of the little creature that had been so glad to see her. The next night, as Christern was returning late from his work, trudging slowly through the forest, with his lantern swinging in his hand, and his wallet slung over his back on the end of his walking stick, something brushed close by the old man’s ear with a buzzing of tiny wings. “That dragon-fly is out late,” said the old man to himself. Very soon the wings brushed by him again with a louder whizzing. “It is a bat!” said the old man, shaking his head. “Shoo! shoo!” But the third time the whirring wings flew almost into his face. “Good evening, old Christern!” said a tiny voice, such as might come from a humming-bird, if it could speak.