There's a man there, a dead man. I saw him and I'm frightened!"

"Nonsense, child, it's one of the keepers asleep, or some stroller who
has no business here. Take my hand and we'll see who it is."

Somewhat reassured, Lillian led her nurse to one of the old oaks beside
the path, and pointed to a figure lying half hidden in the fern. A
slender, swarthy boy of sixteen, with curly black hair, dark brows, and
thick lashes, a singularly stern mouth, and a general expression of
strength and pride, which added character to his boyish face and
dignified his poverty. His dress betrayed that, being dusty and
threadbare, his shoes much worn, and his possessions contained in the
little bundle on which he pillowed his head. He was sleeping like one
quite spent with weariness, and never stirred, though Hester bent away
the ferns and examined him closely.

"He's not dead, my deary; he's asleep, poor lad, worn out with his day's
tramp, I dare say." "I'm glad he's alive, and I wish he'd wake up. He's
a pretty boy, isn't he? See what nice hands he's got, and his hair is
more curly than mine. Make him open his eyes, Hester," commanded the
little lady, whose fear had given place to interest.

"Hush, he's stirring. I wonder how he got in, and what he wants,"
whispered Hester.

"I'll ask him," and before her nurse could arrest her, Lillian drew a
tall fern softly over the sleeper's face, laughing aloud as she did so.

The boy woke at the sound, and without stirring lay looking up at the
lovely little face bent over him, as if still in a dream.