So am I. We are both strangers in a strange land."

If John had had time to think, he might not have spoken in this way, but it is very likely he might have said nothing which would have answered a better purpose. The lad turned and looked at him.

"Yes, I am a stranger. I have no friends--no one," he said huskily, and the tears came into his eyes.

"I have no friends on this side of the sea, and not so very many beyond it--besides my mother."

This, also, was a stupid sort of thing to say, he owned, when he came to think of it, and then he added:

"I have heard that this is a fine country to get on in."

"Yes, so they say."

They went on in silence, and very slowly, the stranger walking wearily, as John could see.

"I am done out," said he at last, stopping and leaning against a tree.

"Yes, so I see. Have you far to go? I will go with you."

"I have nowhere to go. I came here yesterday, and I slept last night in a boat by the wharf."

"Then ye'll just come with me," said John heartily, giving him his arm to lean upon. He would have liked to ask his name, but he did not.

They walked on slowly, till they came to the house where John was staying.

"I have brought a friend," said he to the mistress of the house. "He will share my room, and I will be responsible for him."

"He looks sick," said the woman gravely. "I hope you realise what you are undertaking?"

John _thought_ he "realised" it, but he did not. It would have made no difference, however, if he had. His new friend tossed and muttered all night, and in the morning was unable to raise his head from the pillow, and that was but the beginning. Many days pa.s.sed before he was able to do so. He was light-headed much of the time, and uttered a great many names, some of them angrily enough, and some of them with love and longing unspeakable. It was, "Oh! mother! mother!" Or, "Oh! Allie!

Allie! where are you gone?" through the whole of one painful night when he was at the worst, till the dawn brought sleep at last, and a respite.

He grew better after a while, and the visits of the doctor ceased, but his strength came slowly and his spirits failed him often. The house in which they lodged stood near the water's edge. The heat was great in the middle of the day, and at night the wind which came from the lake was damp and chill. John saw that a change of place was needed, and he would fain have carried him away to get the fresh air of the country.

"A change is what he needs. We can manage it for a day now and then, to get somewhere," said John to himself; "and then--I must to work again."

He knew, or he supposed, that if he applied to Mr Hadden, who had the reputation of being a rich man who did much good with his money, all would be made easy to this stranger; but he himself had the best right to have the pleasure of helping Allison's brother; and he said to himself:

"I'll bide a wee. He has not mentioned Mr Hadden's name, nor his own, for that matter. Yes, I'll bide a wee, and we'll manage it in some way."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"Let us be content to work-- To do the thing we can, and not presume To fret because 'tis little."

And it was managed very much to John's satisfaction, and very easily managed. One morning John hailed an early market-man, returning home with his empty waggon, and asked him if he would take pa.s.sengers for a little way into the country. The man hesitated only for a minute.

"Well, yes, I guess so--just as well as not. Glad of your company,"

said he, after a second glance at John's face, and away they went together. It paid to have their company their new friend told them, as he took his leave of them.

"If you think of walking back to town to-night, I guess you've come far enough," said he, when they came to the top of the hill.

He left them on a little knoll, sheltered by a few great maple-trees, and having a sloping, stony pasture between it and the lake, and here they spent the morning. John had a book, and he enjoyed it, while his patient slept. But he could not quite put away all anxious thoughts, and he laid it down at last to face them.

What was to be done with this silent lad, who had fallen into his hands?

Since the night of their meeting, he had spoken no word about himself, except as he had muttered or cried out unconsciously while the fever was upon him. He had not asked a question or hesitated a moment in letting John do with him as he would, accepting all help and tendance as quietly and naturally as they were cheerfully given.

And John liked all this, in a way. But it could not continue. For the lad's sake something must be said, something must be done.

"He must be made stronger, and put in the way of doing for himself, before I leave," said John, thinking rather of the lightness of his purse than of any desire he had to see the country or even to get home again.

"Yes, we must lose no time," he repeated, and looked up to meet the lad's eyes fixed on him.

"You have never told me your name," said he gravely.

John laughed.

"Have I not? Well, it is John Beaton. Did you ever hear it before?"

"No, I have never heard it."

"And you have not told me yours. It is rather queer, too. The name is usually the first exchange made between men meeting as strangers, when they wish to become friends."

There was no answer to this. "Well?" said John, after a little.

"I have been thinking--I mean I call myself William Leslie."

"And is that your name?" asked John gravely.

"Yes, it is my name. It is not all of my name. But what does it matter in this new country? My name is nothing to any one."

"But it is something to yourself. I havena a fine name, but it was my father's before me, and my grandfather's, and I wouldna change it to be called a lord," said John gravely. "My lad, I hope you have done nothing to make you afraid or ashamed to own your name?"

"I have done nothing that I wouldna do again, ten times over, if it would give me my revenge!" he cried, raising himself up, while his eyes flashed angrily. "It is not for shame, but for safety that I wish to have my name forgotten, and--for Allie's sake."

He lay down again, and after the anger, the tears came. Then John did an extraordinary thing. When he stooped to arrange the plaid over his friend, he kissed him on his lips and on his closed eyelids. Then he rose and turned his back upon him.

While he stood thus the rain began to fall, the first drops of a summer shower, which promised to be a heavy one. What was to be done now?

Where were they to find shelter? John ran up the hill to the other side of the grove and looked northward toward the threatening clouds, and down over a wide landscape, which even the glooming clouds could not make otherwise than fair. There were fields of gra.s.s and grain stretching as far as the eye could reach. There were men at work among the hay, piling high the long wagons, in haste to get it to shelter before the rain came on. A white farmhouse, half hidden by trees, stood near, and great barns with doors wide open, waiting for the coming of the wagons. It did not need a minute for John to take all this in, and in another he was speeding down the hill and over the meadow with his friend in his arms, nor did he pause till he had laid him in one of the barns on a bed of fragrant hay.

"I must go back for the plaid and the basket," said he; and stooping down, he added gently: "My lad, if any one should ask your name, mind that you are Willie Bain."

He came back as a great load of hay drew up at the barn door.

"Drive right in under cover, Sam," said the farmer, who followed. "I expect we'll have to leave it here. We can't unload in time to do much more. Hurry up and c.o.c.k up as much of the rest as you can. If it had only held up another hour!"

The man slid down from the load and made for the field.

"Well how, it begins to look as though it might hold up," soliloquised the farmer. "I 'most wish I had let him stay. Halloo, Sam!"