"I am a smith," said Caspar, evading the question. "I had a dear little girl just about thy age, who died." "Did you?" asked Kitty, much interested. "What was her name?" "Her name was Gertrude Reinhart, and mine is Caspar Reinhart." "And my name is Catharine Elmer, but everybody calls me Kitty, even Recompense Joule," said Kitty, in an injured tone.—"There, now! I should like to know how we are to get into your boat?" Caspar looked in dismay. In his hurry to save the child, he had not secured his boat. It had floated off into the middle of the stream, and, the tide having turned, it was making good progress toward Delaware Bay. Caspar could have beaten himself for his stupidity, but there was no help for it now. "Well, little one, we must trust to our own legs," said he, trying to make the best of matters. "If we keep within sight of the river, we cannot be far wrong. If only the boat had not carried away my great-coat and provisions, it would not matter so much." Kitty declared herself able to walk "miles upon miles," now that she had had something to eat, and set off sturdily enough; but it presently appeared that she had overrated her powers, since she was not only very tired, but very lame. "Thou canst not walk, my little one," said Caspar, presently. "I am afraid I can't," answered Kitty, sorrowfully. "My feet are so sore, and I think I have got a thorn or something in one of them." Caspar examined the tender little feet, which were indeed sorely blistered, drew out a thorn, and bound them up with leaves and strips torn from Kitty's apron, which was pretty well reduced to rags already. Kitty bore the operation bravely, though she winced now and then. "Now you will have to carry me," said she, "and I don't see how you will manage. But it is a good thing that I am small of my age, isn't it? I shall tell Recompense Joake so when I get home. He is always laughing at me and calling me a chipmunk and a sparrow, and what not." Kitty chattered on till she chattered herself off to sleep. She was not very heavy, but still she was something of a load, and Caspar found his arms aching. The walking was difficult and slow, especially as he dared not go out of sight of the river for fear of losing his way. He was obliged to sit down and rest several times, and it was drawing on toward sunset when he at last came out on an open space where there were signs of a farm-clearing and a deserted and half-ruined log cabin. Near by was a bit of low ground overgrown with bushes, out of which ran a clear shallow stream, the first running water they had come across that day. There had been a small barn, but it was broken down and decayed. The cabin was a double one, and the roof and fireplace at one end were tolerably entire, while the other held a heap of old straw and a quantity of pine knots and roots which had evidently been gathered for fuel at some time or other.