goes somewhat against my conscience; but, as you say, it will make but a
meagre portion for each of them, and would be nothing were it fairly
divided; besides, you have brought it with the risk of your life, and I
know not that any save you have a right to a voice in its partition."

Before the gates were closed, John went out, and presently had the
satisfaction of hearing a small stone drop from the wall above him,
followed presently by the end of a rope. He sent up the kegs, and then
lay down among the bushes, and enjoyed the satisfaction of thinking of
the joy of the little ones, when the milk and bread were served out to
them. As soon as the gates were open in the morning, he went in.

"Thank you, oh, so much, for the milk and bread last night. We heard how
you had swum so far, and gone into danger to get it for us, and we're
going to have some more for breakfast."

"It was not much, dears," John said.

"Oh, no, it was not much; but it was so nice, and we did all sleep so
well last night--even little Lucy didn't waken and cry once--and Ruth
Hardy said we ought to call you the Raven; but we don't like that name
for you."

"The Raven, Ruth!" John said, mystified. "Why did you want to call me the
Raven?"

"I wouldn't do it if you didn't like it, dear John; but you know that
chapter that Master Williams read us, the other day, about the ravens
that fed somebody in a cave, and we have been wishing the ravens would
feed us; and so you see, when you sent us the milk last night, I thought