When Queenie threw herself down upon the wet grass in a weariness so utter that she could no longer hold her aching limbs upright, she had thought that a minute of rest would put new strength into her exhausted frame, and enable her to pursue her journey.

But exhausted nature could bear no more. Her unbroken fast of nearly three days, and her wet and draggled condition combined to weaken and depress her. Her limbs trembled under her, and when she fell down for one minute's rest, a deep unconsciousness stole upon her, wrapping her senses in lethargy. Her last conscious thought was one of agonized terror, lest ere she revived her enemy should discover her escape, and set out to trace her.

While she lay there mute and still, the dawn began to grow brighter in the east, the rain slackened, and a few pale beams of sunshine striking upon the scene, showed that she had fallen almost at the gate of a little farm-house from whose chimneys the blue smoke curled cheerfully up, showing that the inhabitants were already up and about their daily labors.

Presently a middle-aged man, in the rough, coarse garb of a farmer came out of the house and strode down to the gate, whistling a merry tune, and snapping and cracking the great leathern whip he carried in his hand.

As he stepped outside the gate his cheerful whistle suddenly ended in an exclamation of terror.

His glance had fallen on the still form lying just outside the gate, with its lovely, white face and closed eyes upturned to the light.

He stood still a moment, looking down at her in awe and consternation.

"What a pretty young un," he said, aloud, "And she's dead, I mistrust—stone dead!"

The next moment he leaned over the gate and called loudly:

"Wife, wife, come out!"

The door opened and a middle-aged, pleasant-looking woman appeared. She was flushed as if she had been over the fire, and held some small cooking utensil in her hand.

"Well, Jerry," she said, "what do you want now?"

"Come out and see," he answered.

"Well, but I can't leave the cakes," said she, intent on her housewifely cares; "they will burn."

"Tell Jennie to mind the gridiron," he said, "and do you come out to me."

She went in and reappeared after a minute, coming down the path with her homely check apron thrown over her head.

"What now, Jerry?" she said, half-pettishly, half good-naturedly. "What is lost this morning? A pity I have to mind the farm-tools as well as the frying-pans!"

Jerry, whom this home thrust betrayed to be a good-natured, shiftless fellow, dependent on his better-half's more orderly ways, looked up to laugh, then checked himself, awed by the presence of that still form at his feet.

"There's naught misplaced this time, my dear," he said; "you shouldn't be forever twitting a poor, careless fellow with his faults."

"What is't amiss, then?" she said, as she came up to the gate.

"Look there!" he answered, pointing down. "A poor tramp dead in the road!"

The good woman looked, started, and her healthy, red cheeks turned white.

"Oh, my Heavenly Father!" she ejaculated. "Who is't, Jerry?"

"How should I know, woman?" asked her husband. "I've but just stepped outside the gate and found her."

"And is she really, truly dead, Jerry?"

"She looks like it," he said. "But stoop down and feel of her heart, Jane. See if it beats."

The woman came out of the gate, and bending down, put her hand half-timorously inside of Queenie's cloak and felt her heart.

"Yes—no—yes, it does beat just the leastest bit," she said. "Poor creature! Take her up and carry her into the kitchen, Jerry. Perhaps we may revive her."

"That's like your good heart, Jane," said the farmer, as he lifted up the limp form and conveyed it into the kitchen.

A rosy, exceedingly pretty, dark-eyed girl who was busily frying corn-cakes over the fire came forward with an exclamation of surprise as he laid his burden down upon the lounge that stood in one corner.

"Never mind the cakes, Jennie," said her mother. "Come and lend a hand to save a poor creetur as your father found perishin' in the road."

"What can I do, mother?" asked the girl.

"Take them muddy things off her feet, and rub the poor creetur's limbs dry," said the good woman, busying herself in removing the wet cloak, "I declare to gracious!" she said, after a moment. "How blind men are. Jerry called her a tramp. Look at them rings on her fingers! Look at that dress, fine enough for the finest bride! Is that the way tramps dress, Mr. Thorn?"

"She's of the finest quality, mother," said the girl called Jennie. "Her slippers are white satin, her stockings pure silk, and worked all over with flowers."

"Never mind the shoes and the stockings, Jennie," said her father, "but rub the little un's feet. See how cold and blue they are."

Thus adjured, Jennie brought a warm flannel cloth, and began to rub the icy little feet of the wayfarer, while her mother brought strong camphor and bathed the pale face; now and then applying a bottle of ammonia to her nostrils.

Under this vigorous treatment, and the revivifying heat of the room, the patient's heart began to beat quicker, and a faint, thread-like pulse to flutter in her blue-veined wrist.

"Poor soul!" exclaimed Mrs. Thorn. "I do wonder how she came to be out in such a storm? All in her party dress, too! She'd be as pretty as a pink, with her eyes open, and a bit more color in her cheeks."

The farmer now approached with a cup of warm coffee and a teaspoon.

"Belike she needs summat to warm her up," he said. "Take the spoon, Jane, and force a wee bit of coffee between her lips."

Mrs. Thorn did as requested, but with no visible result for the better. The patient still lay with closed eyes and lips, showing no sign of life, save in the tremulous beat of her heart and the faint, faint pulse of her wrist.

Mrs. Thorn still worked patiently over her, but at the end of an hour looked disheartened.

"I mistrust that this is a case for the doctor," she said; "we have done what we could, but all to no use."

"I could bring a doctor, but who's to pay him?" said the farmer. "We have no money, Jane, and Jennie's out of work."

"The lady could pay him, herself," suggested Jennie. "There's them rings on her fingers worth a mint of money."

"Yea, that's so," said the mother. "Go and get the doctor, Jennie. The lady will die, I'm afraid, if she lays in this state much longer."

"I'll go and bring Dr. Pillsbury, then," said the farmer, going out, followed by repeated injunctions from his wife to hurry.

"There's not a minute to lose," she said. "Even now it may be too late to raise the poor creetur to life again, so low as she has sunk."