waxy and odorous, shut tight in his hand. I looked
at him till I suddenly wanted him to wake and look at me. I picked a
grass stalk, and, leaning over, brushed it against his lips.

He woke as a child does, not alert at once, but with drowsy stirrings,
and finally with open eyes so sleep-filled that they were as
expressionless as a fawn's. He stared as if trying to remember who I
was.

I sat beside him. "I am the owner of that cargo you are guarding," I
supplied to aid his memory, and then laughed to see the red flood his
face when he came to himself and realized what he had done. But I was
not at ease. He had shivered and drawn back when he first opened his
eyes. Could he be afraid of me? I should not wish that. I tried to
be crafty.

"Who did you think I was when you first woke?" I asked, taking my pipe
and preparing to be comfortable.

He pushed back his hair. "Benjamin," he answered vaguely. He was
still half asleep.

"But you told me your name was Benjamin!" I put down my flint and
tinder.

He met my look. "I have a cousin Benjamin, as well," he rejoined. "I
was dreaming of him. Monsieur, I am humiliated to think that I went to
sleep. I have never done so before."

My pipe drew well, and I did not feel like chiding. "It does not
matter," I said, with a yawn. "You must not take it amiss, monsieur,
if I confess that, as a guard, I have never considered you much more
seriously than I would that brown thrush above you. What is your
posy?" and I leaned over and took the flowers from his hand.

He smiled at me drowsily. "The arbutus," he explained, with a
lingering touch of his finger upon the blossoms. "Smell them,
monsieur. I found them in Connecticut last spring. Are they not well
suited to be the first flowers of this wild land? Repellent
without,--see how rough the leaves are to your finger,--but fragrant
and beautiful under its harsh coating. Life in the Colonies grew to
seem to me much the same."

I turned the flowers over, and considered his philosophy. "You are
less cynical than your wont, monsieur." I reflected. "May I say that I
like it better in you? Cynicism is a court exotic. It should not grow
under these pines."

He put out his hand to brush a twig from my doublet. "Cynicism is
often the flower of bitterness. Monsieur, you have been very good to
me. I cannot keep in mind my constant bitterness against life when I
think of the thoughtfulness and justice you hav