One day--it was a hot afternoon in harvest-time--I heard the bell that hung near the great gateway ring suddenly. A faint ring, as if the hand that pulled the bell was weak or afraid, but as I stood still for a minute, listening, it sounded again. I ran to the door and opened it: a man dressed like a soldier in a faded red coat was half-sitting, half-lying on the ground leaning against the archway. Beside him, trying to support him, knelt a boy of about my own age, who looked up eagerly as I pulled open the gate. I drew back, startled at the man's haggard face and dark hair, meaning to go and call my mother, but the boy stretched out his hand to me and said eagerly-- 'Give him a little water, for the love of God!' A little water--how strange it sounded to me--a cup of water. Mother had said she hoped I should. I rushed back to the house, seized a horn mug, and there at the well the bucket stood half full. The boy put the water to his father's lips, and the poor man swallowed a few drops with difficulty. 'How tired he is,' I said. The boy shook back the dark hair from his eyes and looked up at me. 'He can't get on any farther. I don't know what to do.' 'Oh, you must come in here,' I said eagerly. 'Can't he walk? It isn't far.' The boy bent down and spoke. I scarcely think the poor soldier understood what was said to him, but at his son's voice and touch he strove wearily to get up from the ground. Between us we managed to lead him into the kitchen. He fell heavily on the oak-settle near the window. 'Is he very ill?' I asked. 'Three days ago he was struck down with fever. Last night we had to sleep under a hedge, they would not take us in at the place we stopped at, and to-day he----' The boy stopped and turned round. Another voice--I scarcely knew it for my mother's, it was so changed and hoarse--repeated his words, 'Struck down with fever.' She drew me hastily away from the sick man, whose hand still rested on my shoulder. 'Oh, Willie! what have you done--what have you done?' 'Mother, the poor man wanted some water,' I began, but she called to me to go away, and when I wanted to stay and tell her about it, she pushed me towards the door with a sort of cry-- 'Go, go, I will come to you.' I went out frightened and puzzled, and waited for her at the well. When she came to me, I sprang into her arms and sobbed out, 'Mother, what have I done? You said a cup of water--' I could not go on, but pointed to the stone. It was strange to see how the troubled look passed away from her face and the peacefulness I knew so well came back. 'My boy, you have done nothing--nothing wrong. I hope you will always try to follow God's commands, though it may lead you into troubles.' 'What is it, mother? Is the man very ill?' 'Very ill, Willie,' she said gently; 'so ill that I don't know yet what we ought to do. I wish father was at home. I must go back now.'