“You do look sick, bub,” said Abner, struck by Herbert’s pallid look.  “Was I walking too fast for you?”

“I feel very weak,” said Herbert.  “Would you mind stopping a little while?  I should like to lie under a tree and rest.”

“All right, bub.  There’s a nice tree.”  “Don’t you feel tired, Abner?”

“No; I feel as strong as hearty as a horse.”

“You are bigger than I am.  I guess that is the reason.”

Abner was a rough boy, but he showed unusual gentleness and consideration for the little boy, whose weakness appealed to his better nature.  He picked out a nice, shady place for Herbert to recline upon, and, taking off his coat, laid it down for a pillow on which his young companion might rest his head.

“There, bub; I reckon you’ll feel better soon,” he said.

“I hope so, Abner.  I wish I was as strong as you are.”

“So do I. I reckon I was born tough.  I was brought up different from you.”

“I wish I were at home,” sighed Herbert.  “Is it a long way from here?”

“I reckon it is, but I don’t know,” answered Abner, whose geographical notions were decidedly hazy.

An hour passed, and still Herbert lay almost motionless, as if rest were a luxury, with his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the clouds that could be seen through the branches floating lazily above.

“Don’t you feel any better, bub?” asked Abner.

“I feel better while I am lying here, Abner.”

“Don’t you feel strong enough to walk a little further?”

“Must I?” asked Herbert, sighing.  “It is so nice to lie here.”

“I am afraid we shall never get to New York if we don’t keep goin’.”

“I’ll try,” said Herbert, and he rose to his feet, but he only staggered and became very white.

“I am afraid I need to rest a little more,” he said.

“All right, bub.  Take your time.”

More critically Abner surveyed his young companion.  He was not used to sickness or weakness, but there was something in the little boy’s face that startled him.

“I don’t think you’re fit to walk any further today,” he said.  “I wish we had some good place to stay.”

At this moment a carriage was seen approaching.  It was driven by a lady of middle age, with a benevolent face.  Her attention was drawn to the two boys, and especially to Herbert.  Her experienced eyes at once saw that he was sick.

She halted her horse.

“What is the matter with your brother?” she said to Abner.

“I reckon he’s tuckered out,” said Abner, tacitly admitting the relationship.  “We’ve been travelin’ for several days.  He ain’t so tough as I am.”

“He looks as if he were going to be sick.  Have you any friends near here?”

“No, ma’am.  The nighest is over a hundred miles off.”

The lady reflected a moment.  Then she said:  “I think you had better come to my house.  My brother is a doctor.  He will look at your little brother and see what can be done for him.”