Tue was alarmed to find herself so suddenly left alone, and she cried out. Yung was at her side almost immediately.

She wondered at the glad feeling in her heart when she saw him. "I thought you had gone," she explained.

"And left you? Never!" he cried fervently. She shut her eyes again, in lazy content. "Where were you?" she asked.

"I was just aside there, gathering brushwood."

"Why?"

"I am going to make a fire."

"Do you live here?"

"Oh, no, indeed; I come from the village."

"Then won't you please take me home before you make your fire? For my father might feel anxious."

"I am very sorry," said Yung, hesitating, "but, really, it is so dark that it would be useless to try to reach the village to-night."

"But I must go home," cried Tue, springing up; "I will not stay here all night! How dare you propose it? I will never do it, never!"

"We should certainly be lost in the forest," said Yung; "look up and see."

It was even as Yung had said. While these events had been taking place, evening's mantle had shadowed the earth; and even now the blackness of midnight was under the shade of the trees, though it was yet dusk in the open glen. Tue saw the truth of Yung's words; but in her case (as in that of many, I fear) the discovery of truth did not bring with it an exquisite joy. She sank upon the ground and wept.

Soon, however, her woman's wit thought of an expedient. "We might follow along the shore," she said.

"And fall into the sea in the darkness? No, we must stay here till morning."