"Yes, indeed," said Yung.

"Then - will you please not stay awake to watch? You have been so kind to me; I would not put you to unnecessary inconvenience. I cannot sleep unless you promise."

"Very well," said Yung, "I promise."

Satisfied on this point, Tue went into the cave again, and was soon fast asleep.

When she next opened her eyes it was broad day. The fire was out, and looking through the branches that formed her door, she could see the brook, rippling silver-bright in the morning sun. She remembered her situation with a smile and a blush; and went out to find her protector.

There he was, ready for her appearance; with a fair lunch of fruit and fish such as only he himself could have procured under the circumstances. His smile, on seeing Tue, was singularly winning.

"See," he said, "you shall not be the guest of an empty-handed host. We must not faint with hunger before we reach home."

After an abundant breakfast, they set out for home; but each turned back for a minute in an affectionate farewell to the camp. The first mile of the road was finished with quiet conversation, at an ordinary pace; but as they neared the village Yung's steps grew gradually slower; nor did Tue insist upon haste. They were silent for five minutes, then Yung said suddenly, "I wish this might go on forever!"

Tue looked a little frightened, but still she did not remonstrate.

"Am I never to see you again?" said Yung.

"I hope so; why not?" Not much in themselves, these words; but the tone was so low, so pleading, so hopeful, and withal so sweet, that the answer meant much.

"How?" inquired Yung.

"It is not my place to tell you," she answered.

"I shall die if I do not see you again soon."

Tue looked gratified, but shocked. "You must n't say that."