"Do they go much farther?" asked the interested listener, when he had
told her all he knew of the desolate little pilgrims.

"Only a few miles the other side of Kenton," he answered.

"Why, Kenton is where I live," she exclaimed. "I am glad it will be so
near." Then as he passed on she thought to herself, "It would be cruel
to separate them. I never saw such devotion as that of the older boy."
His feet could not reach the floor, but he sat up uncomfortably on the
high seat, holding Robin in his lap. The curly head rested heavily on
his shoulder, and his arms ached with their burden, but he never moved
except to brush away the flies, or fan the flushed face of the little
sleeper with his hat.

Something in the tired face, the large appealing eyes, and the droop
of the sensitive mouth, touched her deeply. She crossed the aisle and
sat down by him.

"Here, lay him on the seat," she said, bending forward to arrange her
shawl for a pillow.

He shook his head. "Robin likes best for me to hold him."

"But he will be cooler and so much more comfortable," she urged.
Taking the child from his unwilling arms, she stretched him full
length on the improvised bed.

Involuntarily the boy drew a deep sigh of relief, and leaned back in
the corner.