would taste better made of this
cold water. When he came up the slope the man's eyes were open.

"Have some water?" asked Rodman.

"Yes; there's a gourd inside."

The keeper entered, and found himself in a large, bare room; in one
corner was some straw covered with an old counterpane, in another a
table and chair; a kettle hung in the deep fireplace, and a few dishes
stood on a shelf; by the door on a nail hung a gourd; he filled it and
gave it to the host of this desolate abode. The man drank with
eagerness.

"Pomp has gone to town," he said, "and I could not get down to the
spring to-day, I have had so much pain."

"And when will Pomp return?"

"He should be here now; he is very late to-night."

"Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you; he will soon be here."

The keeper looked out over the waste; there was no one in sight. He was
not a man of any especial kindliness--he had himself been too hardly
treated in life for that--but he could not find it in his heart to leave
this helpless creature all alone with night so near. So he sat down on
the door-step. "I will rest awhile," he said, not asking but announcing
it. The man had turned away and closed his eyes again, and they both
remained silent, busy with their own thoughts; for each had recognized
the ex-soldier, Northern and Southern, in portions of the old uniforms,
and in the accent. The war and its memories were still very near to the
maimed, poverty-stricken Confederate; and the other knew that they were,
and did not obtrude himself.

Twilight fell, and no one came.

"Let me get you something," said Rodman; for the face looked ghastly as
the fever abated. The other refused. Darkness came; still, no one.

"Look here," said Rodman, rising, "I have been wounded myself, was in
hospital for months; I know how you feel. You must have food--a cup of
tea, now, and a slice of toast, brown and thin."

"I have not tasted tea or wheaten bread for weeks," answered the man;
his voice died off into a wail, as though feebleness and pain had drawn
the cry from him in spite of himself. Rodman lighted a match; there was
no candle, only a piece of pitch-pine stuck in an iron socket on the
wall; he set fire to this primitive torch and looked around.

"There is nothing there," said the man outside, making an effort to
speak carelessly; "my servant went to town for supplies. Do not trouble
yourself to wait; he will come presently, and--and I want nothing."

But Rodm