He stood for some moments gazing down on the Saxon face so pitifully thin and delicate. The brow did not frown nor the lips quiver; no movement of the muscles betrayed the hopeless despair of the sleeper’s heart. The cot gave a creak and a rustle. The nurse was leaning one hand on the edge of the miserable pallet bed bending over the sick man. There was a light touch on his hair; a tear fell on his cheek; the nurse had kissed the patient! When the door had closed behind the lad, Warren opened his eyes in full consciousness; and as he brushed the tear from his face, there came a puzzled look into his eyes. Presently Allen returned with the soup and found him awake. His features lighted up with intelligence and sympathy on making the discovery, and finding him free from fever. “Well, how are you getting on, sir?” he asked in the softest of musical voices, and feeling Warren’s pulse, as he seated himself on a stool at the bedside. “Who are you? Haven’t I met you somewhere? Your voice has a familiar sound.” “I fancy you don’t know me,” replied Allen with a smile. “You’ve saved my life.” “That’s a subject we won’t speak of just now, sir; you must be very quiet.” “Oh, to be well and free once more!” broke in a plaintive tone from the invalid. “If you will only remain quiet and easy in your mind, there’s no doubt all may yet be well,” replied the boy with significant emphasis as he held Warren’s eye a second with a meaning gaze. Many questions came crowding to Warren’s lips; but Allen silenced him firmly and gently. “Bye and bye, sir, I will tell you all I can, but you must drink this broth now and sleep.” Warren drank the soup and with a feeling of peace new to him, turned his face to the wall and slept. One week longer Warren lay on his rude bed. Allen refused to talk but told him that he had no cause for anxiety. Maxwell was fascinated by his nurse; he thought him the prettiest specimen of boyhood he had ever met. The delicate brown features were faultless in outline; the closely cropped black hair was like velvet in its smoothness. He could not shake off the idea that somewhere he had known the lad before in his life. At times this familiarity manifested itself in the tones of the voice soft and low as a woman’s, then again it was in the carriage of the head or the flash of the beautiful large dark eyes. It was an evasive but haunting memory. One day Allen said: “Mr. Maxwell, I’m not to tend you any longer after this week. I’m to be sold.” “Sold!” ejaculated Warren in dismay. Allen nodded. “It’s getting too hot for me, and I’m going to run for it.” “What shall I do without you?” said Warren with a sick feeling of despair at his heart. “Have you no hope of escape? Have you never thought of being rescued?” asked the lad in a whisper with a cautious motion of the hand toward the door. “Oh, Allen!” faltered Warren in speechless joy.