By this time Yung had kindled a fire; and the ruddy glare lit up the valley, and sparkled far off on the sea. "We must keep up a beacon-light," said Yung gayly. "Now let us make arrangements for the night."

He brought in fresh branches, and made a bed on the floor of the cave. With two broad leafy boughs, he made, as it were, curtains for the door, which should screen Tue from the fire, but not cut her off from its heat. Tue watched him, as he made all these arrangements for her comfort, with a feeling in which alarm was tempered by a strange complacency.

"Now you shall have the cave," said Yung, when all was done, "and I will watch below there. Or stay," he added, "I will go home by the coast - I can find my way alone - and bring help in the morning. Unless you would be afraid?"

Tue made no answer. After a little, "Shall I go?" Yung asked.

"No," whispered the girl.

"You would be frightened?"

"Yes," she admitted; and immediately disappeared behind her rustic curtains.

Yung replenished the fire, and then took his post at some distance down the valley. There, leaning against a tree, he tried to think over the strange events of the day. Tue, inside the cave, could not sleep. She thought of Yung, watching out in the cold night; and her thoughts were more and more kind toward him. After a restless hour, she got up and peeped through the door. Yung was outside, tending the fire. He looked up, and saw her face through the leaves.

"I could not sleep," apologized Tue, as if she felt herself accountable to her companion.

"Nor could I," said Yung; and they both laughed, as if it were a joke.

"I was afraid you might be cold," said Tue, with bashful concern.

"Oh, no," answered Yung.

"Or frightened? Are there no wild beasts or anything dangerous about us?" and she shuddered at the thought.

"Oh, no," again; "we are perfectly safe."

"You are sure?"