tting her, smoothing her
hair, and even pressing her lips to her cheek. In truth Dorothy
appeared as weak as a baby, and seemed to require that help which a
loving human hand may impart to a nervous body, at once the sense of
protection and the assurance of sympathy.

"Ned is starting up the machine," exclaimed Tavia. "Oh, I know. He is
going to give the man a ride."

Little dreaming how truly she spoke, for indeed Ned was going to give
the strange man a stranger ride, Tavia showed Dorothy that she believed
everything was all right now, and then Nat was there--they could call
to him. Yes, he was whistling lightly. How silly they were to have
been frightened!

"What is it?" demanded Dorothy, as soon as her cousin could hear her
voice.

"I guess it was--"

"Nat! Nat!" screamed Tavia, at the same time running to him and
whispering a word in his ear. "There, now, Dorothy. Didn't I tell
you. Only a poor farmer. Where did he say he lived, Nat?"

"Tavia, you told Nat not to tell me--"

"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Nat. "Well, of all things. Not to tell you.
Well I guess I will. Sit right down here, my little Coz, and I shall
be delighted to tell you all I know," and at this he drew the almost
exhausted girl down to a tree stump, to "tell her." But Tavia kept
close at the other side of the young man--she could nudge him if--well,
of course, just to make the story funny--perhaps!

"Wanted a ride, that was all," declared Nat. "See, here they are. We
must not notice them as they pass!"

"Why?" asked Dorothy. But in answer Nat squeezed her hand so hard she
knew he meant for her to keep quiet.

The car flew past. Ned never glanced at those by the roadside. And
how strange he looked--

"Oh, Nat!" almost screamed Dorothy. "That man had on striped
clothes--like--"

"Queer kind of sweater. They come in all sorts of stripes," her cousin
interrupted, with a side glance at Tavia.

"But his leg was out of the car, and that was--"

"Also striped. Yes, I noticed his suit was not exactly of the newest
fall pattern, but there is no telling where a farmer may pick up his
duds. Like as not his wife made the trousers out of some good strong
bed ticking."

"Nat, you are trying to deceive me. That man is an escaped convict,
and Ned is riding alone with him--Oh, what will become of us?" and
tears welled to Dorothy's eyes. That outlet of the overstrained--a
good cry--had come to her relief.

"Oh, there!" begged