the far-off droning of a river. It did not seem to belong to her. "My
name is Moore--Anna Moore--and I thought--I hoped perhaps you might be
good enough to give me work." The strange faces spun about her eyes.
She tottered and would have fallen if Dave had not caught her.

Dave, the silent, the slow of action, the cool-headed, seemed suddenly
bereft of his chilling serenity. "Here, mother, a chair; father, some
water, quick." He carried the swooning girl to the shadow of the porch
and fanned her tenderly with his broad-brimmed straw hat.

The old people hastened to do his bidding. Dave, excited and issuing
orders in that tone, was too unusual to be passed over lightly.

"What were you going to say, Miss Moore?" said the Squire as soon as the
brown eyes opened.

"I thought, perhaps, I might find something to do here--I'm looking for
work."

"Why, my dear," said Mrs. Bartlett, smoothing the dark curls, "you are
not fit to stand, let alone work."

"You could not earn your salt," was the Squire's less sympathetic way of
expressing the same sentiment. "Where is your home?"

"I have no home." She looked at them desperately, her dark eyes
appealing to one and the other, as if they were the jury that held her
life in the balance. Only one pair of eyes seemed to hold out any hope.

"If you would only try me I could soon prove to you that I am not