“I guess I shall spill out of this, and get kilt.”

“Oh, no, you won’t, Sunshine!  I shall hold you in.  You’re not Irish, are you?”

“What’s that?”

“Why, Irish, you know.  You said ‘kilt’ just now, instead of ‘killed,’ as we do.”

The child made no reply; but her head drooped upon Dora’s shoulder yet more heavily, and her eyes closed.

“Are you sick, little girl? or only tired?” asked Dora, looking anxiously down into the colorless face, over which the evening breeze was gently strewing the tangled curls, as if to hide it from mortal view, while the poor, worn, spirit fled away to peace and rest.

“Sunshine!” exclaimed Dora, gently moving the heavy head that still drooped lower and lower, until now the face was hidden from view.

“She has fainted!” said Dora, looking anxiously about her.  No house and no person were in sight, nor any stream or pond of water; and the young girl decided that the wisest course would be to drive home as rapidly as possible, postponing all attempt to revive her little patient until her arrival there.

Without checking the horse, she dragged from under the seat a quilted carriage-robe, and spread it in the bottom of the wagon, arranging a paper parcel as a pillow.  Then, laying poor Sunshine upon this extemporized couch, she took off her own light shawl, and covered her; leaving exposed only the face, white and lovely as the marble statue recumbent upon a little maiden’s tomb.

“Now, Pope!” cried Dora, with one touch of the whip upon the glossy haunch of the powerful beast, who, at sound of that clear voice, neighed reply, and darted forward at the rate of twelve good miles an hour; so that, in considerably less than the promised time, Dora skilfully turned the corner from the road into a green country lane, and, a few moments after, stopped before the door of an old-fashioned one-story farm-house, painted red, with a long roof sloping to the ground at the back, an open well with a sweep and bucket, and a diamond-paned dairy-window swinging to and fro in the faint breeze.  Around the irregular door-stone, the grass grew close and green; while nodding in at the window, and waving from the low eaves, and clambering upon the roof, a tangle of white and sweet-brier roses, of woodbine and maiden’s-bower, lent a rare grace to the simple home, and loaded the air with a cloud of delicate perfume.

A young man, lounging upon the doorstep, started to his feet as the wagon came dashing up the lane, and was going to open the gate of the barn-yard; but Dora stopped before the open door, and called to him,—­

“Karl!  Come here, please.”

“Certainly.  I was running out of the way for fear of being ground to powder beneath your chariot-wheels; for I said to myself, ’Surely the driving is as the driving of Jehu, the son of Nimshi.’”

“I shouldn’t have driven so fast; but-see here!”