"I am tired; I want to rest; I must rest somewhere; I--I can't keep walking all night." "No; you certainly can't; and, since that is the case, you had better come with me." He turned, as if to go. She drew back. "Where to?" He noted the gesture. "Not far; only a few steps. Are you afraid of me?" "No; I don't think I am." "Be sure, please. Doesn't your instinct tell you that there's nothing about me which you need fear? It's hard on me if it doesn't, since my one prayer is that no one who is helpless, hopeless, and in trouble shall ever be afraid of me. So please be sure that you are not afraid; and come." He moved off; this time she followed; though still a little doubtfully. He led her, between the bushes, to where the ground began to fall away; pausing on the crest of the slope, he pointed to a caravan which was immediately in front, at the bottom of a little hollow, which was just deep enough to hide it from view till one was right upon it. "You say that you've no home; that's mine--_pro tem_.--for this summer time, which flies all too quickly. And, while it's summer, it's a home fit for a lord; a king need want no better; and, for this night, it's yours." He stopped; then, seeing that she looked at him askance, went on: "By that I mean that if, instead of spending the night in the open, resting beneath the bushes, you will accept the hospitality of my caravan, and take up your quarters in it till the morning, I shall be honoured, flattered, and obliged." She was staring at him with wide-open eyes. "Do you mean that you wish me to sleep in there?" She pointed to the structure down below. "If you will so far honour me--if you will be so very good." "But--where are you to sleep?--if that's your home?"