“Do you see that?” exclaimed Noddy, as he stopped rowing, and gazed at the flames which leaped madly up from the devoted building.

“I see it,” replied Fanny, with even more agitation than was manifested by her companion.

“I don’t understand it,” added Noddy.

“The boat-house is on fire, and will burn up in a few minutes more.  I think it is plain enough;” and Fanny struggled to be calm and indifferent.

“We must go back and see to it.”

“We shall do nothing of the kind.  Pull away as hard as ever you can, or we shall not get to Whitestone in season.”

“I don’t care about going to Whitestone now; I want to know what all that means.”

“Can’t you see what it means?  The boat-house is on fire.”

“Well, how did it catch afire?  That’s what bothers me.”

“You needn’t bother yourself about it.  My father owns the boat-house, and it isn’t worth much.”

“All that may be; but I want to know how it got afire.”

“We shall find out soon enough when we return.”

“But I want to know now.”

“You can’t know now; so pull away.”

“I shall have the credit of setting that fire,” added Noddy, not a little disturbed by the anticipation.

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I shall.  I told Ben I wished the boat-house would catch afire and burn up.  Of course he will lay it to me.”

“No matter if he does; Ben isn’t everybody.”

“Well, he is ’most everybody, so far as Miss Bertha is concerned; and I’d rather tumbled overboard in December than have that fire happen just now.”

“You were not there when the fire broke out,” said Fanny, with a strong effort to satisfy her boatman.

“That’s the very reason why they will lay it to me.  They will say I set the boat-house afire, and then ran away on purpose.”

“I can say you were with me when the fire broke out, and that I know you didn’t do it,” replied Fanny.

“That will do; but I would give all my old shoes to know how the fire took, myself.”

“No matter how it took.”

“Yes, it is matter, Miss Fanny.  I want to know.  There wasn’t any fire in the building when I left it.”

“Perhaps somebody stopped there in a boat, and set it on fire.”

“Perhaps they did; but I know very well they didn’t,” answered Noddy, positively.  “There hasn’t been any boat near the pier since we left it.”

“Perhaps Ben left his pipe among those shavings.”

“Ben never did that.  He would cut his head off sooner than do such a thing.  He is as scared of fire as he is of the Flying Dutchman.”

“Don’t say anything more about it.  Now row over to Whitestone as quick as you can,” added Fanny, petulantly.

“I’m not going over to Whitestone, after what has happened.  I shouldn’t have a bit of fun if I went.”

“Very well, Noddy; then you may get out of the scrape as you can,” said the young lady, angrily.

“What scrape?”

“Why, they will accuse you of setting the boat-house afire; and you told Ben you wished it was burned down.”

“But I didn’t set it afire.”

“Who did, then?”

“That’s just what I want to find out.  That’s what worries me; for I can’t see how it happened, unless it took fire from that bucket of water I left on the floor.”

Fanny was too much disturbed by the conduct of her boatman, or by some other circumstance, to laugh at Noddy’s joke; and the brilliant sally was permitted to waste itself without an appreciative smile.  She sat looking at the angry flames as they devoured the building, while her companion vainly attempted to hit upon a satisfactory explanation of the cause of the fire.  Noddy was perplexed; he was absolutely worried, not so much by the probable consequences to himself of the unfortunate event, as by the cravings of his own curiosity.  He did not see how it happened; and if a potent juggler had performed a wonderful feat in his presence, he could not have been more exercised in mind to know how it was done.

Noddy was neither a logician nor a philosopher; and therefore he was utterly unable to account for the origin of the fire.  In vain he wasted his intellectual powers in speculations; in vain he tried to remember some exciting cause to which the calamity could be traced.  Meanwhile, Miss Fanny was deliberating quite as diligently over another question; for she apparently regarded the destruction of the boat-house as a small affair, and did not concern herself to know how it had been caused.  But she was very anxious to reach Whitestone before ten o’clock, and her rebellious boatman had intimated his intention not to carry out his part of the agreement.

“What are you thinking about, Noddy?” asked she, when both had maintained silence for the full space of three minutes, which was a longer period than either of them had ever before kept still while awake.

“I was thinking of that fire,” replied Noddy, removing his gaze from the burning building, and fixing it upon her.

“Are you going to Whitestone, or not?” continued she, impatiently.

“No; I don’t want to go to Whitestone, while all of them down there are talking about me, and saying I set the boat-house afire.”

“They will believe you did it, too.”

“But I didn’t, Miss Fanny.  You know I didn’t.”

“How should I know it?”

“Because I was with you; besides, you came out of the boat-house after I did.”

“If you will row me over to Whitestone, I will say so; and I will tell them I know you didn’t do it.”

Noddy considered the matter for a moment, and, perhaps concluding that it was safer for him to keep on the right side of Miss Fanny, he signified his acceptance of the terms by taking up his oars, and pulling towards Whitestone.  But he was not satisfied; he was as uneasy as a fish out of water; and nothing but the tyranny of the wayward young lady in the boat would have induced him to flee from the trouble which was brewing at Woodville.  He had quite lost sight of the purpose which had induced him to disobey Bertha’s orders.

Our young adventurers had not left Woodville without an object.  There was a circus at Whitestone ­a travelling company which had advertised to give three grand performances on that day.  Miss Fanny wanted to go; but, either because her father was otherwise occupied, or because he did not approve of circuses, he had declined to go with her.  Bertha did not want to go, and also had an engagement.

Fanny had set her heart upon going; and she happened to be too wilful, just at that period, to submit to the disappointment to which her father’s convenience or his principles doomed her.  Bertha had gone to the city at an early hour in the morning to spend the day with a friend, and Fanny decided that she would go to the circus, in spite of all obstacles, and in the face of her father’s implied prohibition.  When she had proceeded far enough to rebel, in her own heart, against the will of her father, the rest of the deed was easily accomplished.

Noddy had never been to a circus; and when Fanny told him what it was, ­how men rode standing up on their horses; how they turned somersets, and played all sorts of antics on the tight rope and the slack rope; and, above all, what funny things the clowns said and did, ­he was quite ready to do almost anything to procure so rare a pleasure as witnessing such a performance must afford him.  It did not require any persuasion to induce him to assist Fanny in her disobedience.  The only obstacle which had presented itself was his morning work in the boat-house, which Bertha’s departure for the city had prevented him from doing at an earlier hour.

To prevent Ben from suspecting that they were on the water, in case they should happen to be missed, he had borrowed a boat and placed it at the Point, where they could embark without being seen, if Ben or any of the servants happened to be near the pier.  The boatman, who made it his business to see that Noddy did his work on time in the morning, did not neglect his duty on this occasion; and when Noddy started to meet Fanny at the appointed place, he had been called back, as described in the first chapter.

As he pulled towards Whitestone, he watched the flames that rose from the boat-house; and he had, for the time, lost all his enthusiasm about the circus.  He could think only of the doubtful position in which his impulsive words to the boatman placed him.  Above all things, ­and all his doubts and fears culminated in this point, ­what would Miss Bertha say?  He did not care what others said, except so far as their words went to convince his mistress of his guilt.  What would she do to him?

But, after all had been said and done, he was not guilty.  He had not set the boat-house on fire, and he did not even know who had done the malicious act.  Noddy regarded this as a very happy thought; and while the reflection had a place in his mind, he pulled the oars with redoubled vigor.  Yet it was in vain for him to rely upon the voice of an approving conscience for peace in that hour of trouble.  If he had not, at that moment, been engaged in an act of disobedience, he might have been easy.  He had been strictly forbidden by Mr. Grant, and by Bertha, ever to take Fanny out in a boat without permission; and Miss Fanny had been as strictly forbidden to go with him, or with any of the servants, without the express consent, each time, of her father or of Bertha.

It is very hard, while doing wrong in one thing, to enjoy an approving conscience in another thing; and Noddy found it so in the present instance.  We do not mean to say that Noddy’s conscience was of any great account to him, or that the inward monitor caused his present uneasiness.  He had a conscience, but his vagabond life had demoralized it in the first place, and it had not been sufficiently developed, during his stay at Woodville, to abate very sensibly his anticipated pleasure at the circus.  His uneasiness was entirely selfish.  He had got into a scrape, whose probable consequences worried him more than his conscience.

By the time the runaways reached Whitestone, the boat-house was all burned up, and nothing but the curling smoke from the ruins visibly reminded the transgressors of the event which had disturbed them.  Securing the boat in a proper place, Noddy conducted the young lady to the large tent in which the circus company performed, and which was more than a mile from the river.  Fanny gave him the money, and Noddy purchased two tickets, which admitted them to the interior of the tent.

If Noddy had been entirely at ease about the affair on the other side of the river, no doubt he would have enjoyed the performance very much; but in the midst of the “grand entree of all the horses and riders of the troupe,” the sorrowing face of Bertha Grant thrust itself between him and the horsemen, to obscure his vision and diminish the cheap glories of the gorgeous scene.  When “the most daring rider in the world” danced about, like a top, on the bare back of his “fiery, untamed steed,” Noddy was enthusiastic, and would have given a York shilling for the privilege of trying to do it himself.

The “ground and lofty tumbling,” with the exception of the spangled tunics of the performers, hardly came up to his expectations; and he was entirely satisfied that he could beat the best man among them at such games.  As the performance proceeded, he warmed up enough to forget the fire, and ceased to dread the rebuke of Bertha; but when all was over, ­when the clown had made his last wry face, and the great American acrobat had achieved his last gyration, Bertha and the fire came back to him with increased power.  Moody and sullen, he walked down to the river with Fanny, who, under ordinary circumstances, would have been too proud to walk through the streets of Whitestone with him.  If he had been alone, it is quite probable that he would have taken to the woods, so much did he dread to return to Woodville.

He pushed off the boat, and for some time he pulled in silence, for Miss Fanny now appeared to have her own peculiar trials.  Her conscience seemed to have found a voice, and she did not speak till the boat had reached the lower end of Van Alstine’s Island.

“The fire is all out now,” said she.

“Yes; but I would give a thousand dollars to know how it caught,” added Noddy.

“I know,” continued Fanny, looking down into the bottom of the boat.

“Who did it?” demanded Noddy, eagerly.

“I did it myself,” answered Fanny, looking up into his face to note the effect of the astonishing confession.