the tired horse's neck.

Then an old woman and a small child appeared in sight, both with
enormous sun-bonnets and carrying baskets. As they came up with me
the woman stopped and swept her face with her hand, while the
child, depositing the basket in the dust with great care, wiped her
little sticky fingers on her pinafore. Then the shady hedge
beckoned them and they came and sat down near me. The woman looked
about seventy, tall, angular, dauntless, good for another ten years
of hard work. The little maid--her only grandchild, she told me--
was just four, her father away soldiering, and the mother died in
childbed, so for four years the child had known no other guardian
or playmate than the old woman. She was not the least shy, but had
the strange self-possession which comes from associating with one
who has travelled far on life's journey.

"I couldn't leave her alone in the house," said her grandmother,
"and she wouldn't leave the kitten for fear it should be lonesome"-
-with a humorous, tender glance at the child--"but it's a long
tramp in the heat for the little one, and we've another mile to
go."

"Will you let her bide here till you come back?" I said. "She'll
be all right by me."

The old lady hesitated.

"Will 'ee stay by him, dearie?" she said.

The small child nodded, drew from her miniature pocket a piece of