ting on a limb a little above his head. Her dark dress was one with the shadows; he could not tell whether she was a guest, or some impertinent intruder.
"I think you'd better come down," he suggested, diverted by her unconventional prank, let her be whom she might prove.
"No, I just came up here this minute," she returned. He saw her lean toward him as she spoke, her voice scarcely'more than a whisper. "I got up here," she hurried on to explain, "while you were standing over there by the gate looking at the hill. If you're waiting for somebody, I'll run away."
"No need," he said, putting out his hand in appeal to stop the suggested flight. "There's nobody in this land for me to be waiting, or who would wait for me."
"You're lonely, poor boy!" she said, sympathy in her tone that thrilled him. Then quickly, as if the words had broken from her and must be retrieved: "Of course not; a man never is lonely. But what are you doing here, out of your station, carrying Don Roberto's cloak and hat?"
"I am a servant in the house of Don Abrahan," Henderson replied.
"Oh, I know," impatiently, "but what are you truly?"
"A sailor who ran away from his ship, a silly fellow who jumped from one hard master and ultimate freedom, to a soft-spoken one and pros-
