His face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his

boney hand over his eyes. “This is what they call delirium, I guess,” he

muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of his coat, and

said nothing but looked all round her with the wondering questioning gaze of

childhood.

 

The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways that their

appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl, and hoisted her

upon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt companion, and assisted

him towards the waggons.

 

“My name is John Ferrier,” the wanderer explained; “me and that little un are

all that’s left o’ twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o’ thirst and hunger

away down in the south.”

 

“Is she your child?” asked someone.

 

“I guess she is now,” the other cried, defiantly; “she’s mine ’cause I saved

her. No man will take her from me. She’s Lucy Ferrier from this day on. Who are

you, though?” he continued, glancing with curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned

rescuers; “there seems to be a powerful lot of ye.”

 

“Nigh upon ten thousand,” said one of the young men; “we are the persecuted

children of God—the chosen of the Angel Merona.”