Noddy dropped his oars, and, with open mouth and staring eyes, gazed fixedly in silence at his gentle companion, who had so far outstripped him in making mischief as to set fire to a building.  It was too much for him, and he found it impossible to comprehend the depravity of Miss Fanny.  He would not have dared to do such a thing himself, and it was impossible to believe that she had done so tremendous a deed.

“I don’t believe it,” said he; and the words burst from him with explosive force, as soon as he could find a tongue to express himself.

“I did,” replied Fanny, gazing at him with a kind of blank look, which would have assured a more expert reader of the human face than Noddy Newman that she had come to a realizing sense of the magnitude of the mischief she had done.

“No, you didn’t, Miss Fanny!” exclaimed her incredulous friend.  “I know you didn’t do that; you couldn’t do it.”

“But I did; I wouldn’t say I did if I didn’t.”

“Well, that beats me all to pieces!” added Noddy, bending forward in his seat, and looking sharply into her face, in search of any indications that she was making fun of him, or was engaged in perpetrating a joke.

Certainly there was no indication of a want of seriousness on the part of the wayward young lady; on the contrary, she looked exceedingly troubled.  Noddy could not say a word, and he was busily occupied in trying to get through his head the stupendous fact that Miss Fanny had become an incendiary; that she was wicked enough to set fire to her father’s building.  It required a good deal of labor and study on the part of so poor a scholar as Noddy to comprehend the idea.  He had always looked upon Fanny as Bertha’s sister.  His devoted benefactress was an angel in his estimation, and it was as impossible for her to do anything wrong as it was for water to run up hill.

If Bertha was absolutely perfect, ­as he measured human virtue, ­it was impossible that her sister should be very far below her standard.  He knew that she was a little wild and wayward, but it was beyond his comprehension that she should do anything that was really “naughty.”  Fanny’s confession, when he realized that it was true, gave him a shock from which he did not soon recover.  One of his oars had slipped overboard without his notice, and the other might have gone after it, if his companion had not reminded him where he was, and what he ought to do.  Paddling the boat around with one oar, he recovered the other; but he had no clear idea of the purpose for which such implements were intended, and he permitted the boat to drift with the tide, while he gave himself up to the consideration of the difficult and trying question which the conduct of Fanny imposed upon him.

Noddy was not selfish; and if the generous vein of his nature had been well balanced and fortified by the corresponding virtues, his character would have soared to the region of the noble and grand in human nature.  But the generous in character is hardly worthy of respect, though it may challenge the admiration of the thoughtless, unless it rests upon the sure foundation of moral principle.  Noddy forgot his own trials in sympathizing with the unpleasant situation of his associate in wrongdoing, and his present thought was how he should get her out of the scrape.  He was honestly willing to sacrifice himself for her sake.  While he was faithfully considering the question, in the dim light of his own moral sense, Miss Fanny suddenly burst into tears, and cried with a violence and an unction which were a severe trial to his nerves.

“Don’t cry, Fanny,” said he; “I’ll get you out of the scrape.”

“I don’t want to get out of it,” sobbed she.

Now, this was the most paradoxical reply which the little maiden could possibly have made, and Noddy was perplexed almost beyond the hope of redemption.  What in the world was she crying about, if she did not wish to get out of the scrape?  What could make her cry if it was not the fear of consequences ­of punishment, and of the mean opinion which her friends would have of her, when they found out that she was wicked enough to set a building on fire?  Noddy asked no questions, for he could not frame one which would cover so intricate a matter.

“I am perfectly willing to be punished for what I have done,” added Fanny, to whose troubled heart speech was the only vent.

“What are you crying for?” asked the bewildered Noddy.

“Because ­because I did it,” replied she; and her choked utterance hardly permitted her to speak the words.

“Well, Miss Fanny, you are altogether ahead of my time; and I don’t know what you mean.  If you cry about it now, what did you do it for?”

“Because I was wicked and naughty.  If I had thought only a moment, I shouldn’t have done it.  I am so sorry I did it!  I would give the world if I hadn’t.”

“What will they do to you?” asked Noddy, whose fear of consequences had not yet given place to a higher view of the matter.

“I don’t care what they do; I deserve the worst they can do.  How shall I look Bertha and my father in the face when I see them?”

“O, hold your head right up, and look as bold as a lion ­as bold as two lions, if the worst comes.”

“Don’t talk so, Noddy.  You make me feel worse than I did.”

“What in the world ails you, Miss Fanny?” demanded Noddy, grown desperate by the perplexities of the situation.

“I am so sorry I did such a wicked thing!  I shall go to Bertha and my father, and tell them all about it, as soon as they come home,” added Fanny, as she wiped away her tears, and appeared to be much comforted by the good resolution which was certainly the best one the circumstances admitted.

“Are you going to do that?” exclaimed Noddy, astonished at the declaration.

“I am.”

“And get me into a scrape too!  They won’t let me off as easy as they do you.  I shall be sent off to learn to be a tinker, or a blacksmith.”

“You didn’t set the boat-house on fire, Noddy.  It wasn’t any of your doings,” said Fanny, somewhat disturbed by this new complication.

“You wouldn’t have done it, if it hadn’t been for me.  I told you what I said to Ben ­that I wished the boat-house was burned up; and that’s what put it into your head.”

“Well, you didn’t do it.”

“I know that; but I shall have to bear all the blame of it.”

Noddy’s moral perceptions were strong enough to enable him to see that he was not without fault in the matter; and he was opposed to Fanny’s making the intended confession of her guilt.

“I will keep you out of trouble, Noddy,” said she, kindly.

“You can’t do it; when you own up, you will sink me to the bottom of the river.  Besides, you are a fool to do any such thing, Miss Fanny.  What do you want to say a word about it for?  Ben will think some fellow landed from the river, and set the boat-house on fire.”

“I must do it, Noddy,” protested she.  “I shall not have a moment’s peace till I confess.  I shall not dare to look father and Bertha in the face if I don’t.”

“You won’t if you do.  How are they going to know anything about it, if you don’t tell them?”

“Well, they will lay it to you if I don’t.”

“No matter if they do; I didn’t do it, and I can say so truly, and they will believe me.”

“But how shall I feel all the time?  I shall know who did it, if nobody else does.  I shall feel mean and guilty.”

“You won’t feel half so bad as you will when they look at you, and know all the time that you are guilty.  If you are going to own up, I shall keep out of the way.  You won’t see me at Woodville again in a hurry.”

“What do you mean, Noddy?” asked Fanny, startled by the strong words of her companion.

“That’s just what I mean.  If you own up, they will say that I made you do it; and I had enough sight rather bear the blame of setting the boat-house afire, than be told that I made you do it.  I can dirty my own hands, but I don’t like the idea of dirtying yours.”

“You don’t mean to leave Woodville, Noddy?” asked Fanny, in a reproachful tone.

“If you own up, I shall not go back.  I’ve been thinking of going ever since they talked of making a tinker of me; so it will only be going a few days sooner.  I want to go to sea, and I don’t want to be a tinker.”

Fanny gazed into the water by the side of the boat, thinking of what her companion had said.  She really did not think she ought to “own up,” on the terms which Noddy mentioned.

“If you are sorry, and want to repent, you can do all that; and I will give you my solemn promise to be as good as you are, Miss Fanny,” said Noddy, satisfied that he had made an impression upon the mind of his wavering companion.

His advice seemed to be sensible.  She was sorry she had done wrong; she could repent in sorrow and silence, and never do wrong again.  Her father and her sister would despise her if they knew she had done such a wicked and unladylike thing as to set the boat-house on fire.  She could save all this pain and mortification, and repent just the same.  Besides, she could not take upon herself the responsibility of driving Noddy away from Woodville, for that would cause Bertha a great deal of pain and uneasiness.

Fanny had not yet learned to do right though the heavens fall.

“Well, I won’t say anything about it, Noddy,” said she, yielding to what seemed to her the force of circumstances.

“That’s right, Fanny.  Now, you leave the whole thing to me, and I will manage it so as to keep you out of trouble; and you can repent and be sorry just as much as you please,” replied Noddy, as he began to row again.  “There is nothing to be afraid of.  Ben will never know that we have been on the river.”

“But I know it myself,” said the conscience-stricken maiden.

“Of course you do; what of that?”

“If I didn’t know it myself, I should feel well enough.”

“You are a funny girl.”

“Don’t you ever feel that you have done wrong, Noddy?”

“I suppose I do; but I don’t make any such fuss about it as you do.”

“You were not brought up by a kind father and a loving sister, who would give anything rather than have you do wrong,” said Fanny, beginning to cry again.

“There! don’t cry any more; if you do, you will ’let the cat out of the bag.’  I am going to land you here at the Glen.  You can take a walk there, and go home about one o’clock.  Then you can tell the folks you have been walking in the Glen; and it will be the truth.”

“It will be just as much a lie as though I hadn’t been there.  It will be one half the truth told to hide the other half.”

This was rather beyond Noddy’s moral philosophy, and he did not worry himself to argue the point.  He pulled up to the landing place at the Glen, where he had so often conveyed Bertha, and near the spot where he had met with the accident which had placed him under her kindly care.  Fanny, with a heavy heart and a doubting mind, stepped on shore, and walked up into the grove.  She was burdened with grief for the wrong she had done, and for half an hour she wandered about the beautiful spot, trying to compose herself enough to appear before the people at the house.  When it was too late, she wished she had not consented to Noddy’s plan; but the fear of working a great wrong in driving him from the good influences to which he was subjected at Woodville, by doing right, and confessing her error, was rather comforting, though it did not meet the wants of her case.

In season for dinner, she entered the house with her hand full of wild flowers, which grew only in the Glen.  In the hall she met Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, who looked at her flushed face, and then at the flowers in her hand.

“We have been wondering where you were, all the forenoon,” said Mrs. Green.  “I see you have been to the Glen by the flowers you have in your hand.  Did you know the boat-house was burned up?”

“I saw the smoke of it,” replied Fanny.

“It is the strangest thing that ever happened.  No one can tell how it took fire.”

Fanny made no reply, and the housekeeper hastened away to attend to her duties.  The poor girl was suffering all the tortures of remorse which a wrong act can awaken, and she went up to her room with the feeling that she did not wish to see another soul for a month.

Half an hour later, Noddy Newman presented himself at the great house, laden with swamp pinks, whose fragrance filled the air, and seemed to explain where he had been all the forenoon.  With no little flourish, he requested Mrs. Green to put them in the vases for Bertha’s room; for his young mistress was very fond of the sweet blossoms.  He appeared to be entirely satisfied with himself; and, with a branch of the pink in his hand, he left the house, and walked towards the servants’ quarters, where, at his dinner, he met Ben, the boatman.