After her father's departure, Nellie sat before the fire engaged upon some needlework. Occasionally her hands rested in her lap, while she gazed thoughtfully into the bright blaze. The soft light from the shaded lamp fell athwart her wealth of dark-brown hair and fair face. Her long lashes drooped as she leaned back in an easy-chair, and let her mind wander to the days when she and Stephen played together as happy children. What bright dreams were theirs, and how many fairy palaces they erected in the far unknown future.
A movement in the cosy-corner roused her from her reverie. She glanced quickly in that direction and saw Dan sitting bolt upright, gazing intently upon her. Nellie smiled as she saw his look of wonder mingled with embarrassment.
"Have you had a nice sleep?" she asked.
"Guess so," came the slow reply. "I dreamed that you and my father were right by my side, but when I woke he was gone and only you are with me."
"I hope you will like it here," Nellie remarked, hardly knowing what to say. "We want to make you happy, and love you just like our own little boy."
"I'm almost a man now," and Dan straightened up his shoulders and proudly threw back his head. "I can hunt and work. See how strong I am," and he placed his right hand upon the muscle of his doubled-up left arm.
"Some day you will be as big as my father, won't you?" replied Nellie, much amused at the sturdy lad.
"Was that your father who brought me here?"
"Yes."
"And what's his name?"
"Mr. Westmore. But most people call him 'Parson John.' You'll call him that, too, won't you? He likes it better."
"Yes; if you want me to, I will. But, say, what's your name?"
"Oh, mine's just Nellie, Nellie Westmore. Not very pretty, is it?"
"I think it is. Do you know that was my mother's name--Nellie, I mean, not the other one."
"And do you remember your mother, Dan?"
"Only a little. She was good and pretty, just like you."
"Tell me about her, will you? I should like to hear."
And there in the quietness of that room Dan's tongue was unloosed, and in his own simple way he told about his mother, her death, and how he and his father had lived together in the little log shanty. Half an hour passed in this quiet talk, and when at length Dan ceased Nellie glanced at the clock.
"Why, I didn't think it was so late! It is time you were in bed. You must be tired. Come, I will show you where you are to sleep to-night, and to-morrow we will fix up a room for your very own."
Going to the kitchen Nellie lighted a small lamp, and with this in her hand she and Dan went up the small winding stairway.
"This is the place," and she opened a door leading to a room at the north of the house. "The pipe from the hall stove comes up there, so it's always quite warm. I do hope you will sleep well."
She went to the window to draw down the blind and as she did so a light fell upon her eyes which gave her a distinct start. It was not from the moon, for the night was dark, but from a burning building, a short distance up the road. The flames were leaping and curling through the roof, sending up blazing cinders in every direction.
Nellie's heart almost stopped beating as she gazed upon the scene. It was Billy Fletcher's house! and what of her father? Was he amidst those flames, or had he escaped?
"Dan, Dan!" she cried, turning to the lad, "Come, quick! I'm afraid that something terrible has happened! Get on your coat and cap as quickly as possible and let's make haste!"
It did not take them long to throw on their wraps, and to hurry forth into the night.
To Nellie the distance seemed never-ending. Would they ever reach the house? How the road had lengthened! and her breath came hard and fast as she staggered forward, trying to keep pace with the more hardy lad. The light of the fire illumined the road for some distance around, and guided their steps. Drawing near they could discover no one about the place. What did it all mean? Here Nellie paused and with wildly beating heart looked at the seething mass before her, and listened to the roar of the flames as they sent up their wild flamboyant tongues into the air. Had her father been entrapped in that terrible furnace? She glanced towards a barn on her right and as she did so her eyes fell upon a sight never to be forgotten. Someone was there, kneeling in the snow with bent head gazing intently upon some object before him. It was her father! and with a cry of joy Nellie rushed forward. She found he was kneeling by Billy Fletcher's side, supporting his head, and carefully wrapping around him his own great-coat. He looked up and an expression of relief came into his face as he saw his daughter standing there.
"I am so glad you have come," he exclaimed. "Poor Billy's in a bad way. We need help. He must be taken to some house. I wish you would hurry up the road for assistance. Dan will go with you. Get his nephew Tom as quickly as possible."
Waiting to hear no more, Nellie, fatigued though she was, started at once for assistance, Dan following close behind. They had gone only a short distance, however, when they met Tom himself running along the road.
"What's wrong?" he gasped.
"Don't you see?" Nellie replied. "The house is burning down."
"And Uncle Billy; is he safe?"
"Yes, he's safe, but almost dead."
"And the box, what about it?"
"What box?"
"The money box; the iron one, where he keeps his papers and gold."
"I know nothing about the box," replied Nellie, while a feeling of great repugnance welled up within her at the heartlessness of the man. He cared little for his uncle, the feeble old body, but only for what he possessed.
By this time they had reached the place where the sick man was lying.
"Is he living?" shouted his nephew.
"Yes," replied the parson, "though I doubt if he can last long. We must get him away to your house as soon as possible."
"But the box, Parson; did you save it?" questioned Tom.
"No, I never thought about it, and, besides, I did not know where it was."
At this Billy opened his faded eyes, and fixed them upon his nephew's face. He tried to speak, but his voice was thick and his words were unintelligible.
"Where's the box?" shouted Tom.
Again the old man endeavoured to say something. Failing in this he made an effort to rise. The struggle was too much for him, and with a cry he sank back upon the snow, dead.
By this time several neighbours had arrived, and stood near with a look of awe upon their rugged faces. Nellie drew her father aside, knowing full well that his care was needed no longer.
"Come," she said, "we had better go home, These men will do the rest. You have done your part."
He followed her along the little path leading to the main road. Reaching this she took him by the arm and supported his steps, which were now over-feeble. Slowly and feelingly, he told the story of the night. He had found the old man in a bad condition, and cold from the lack of a good fire. Filling the stove with a liberal supply of wood, and making Billy as comfortable as the circumstances would permit, he had sat down to watch his charge. Ere long the sick man grew much worse. Then the chimney had caught fire. The bricks must have been loose somewhere, which allowed the flames to pour through into the dry woodwork overhead, which was soon converted into a blazing mass. Seeing that nothing could be done to save the building Mr. Westmore was forced to carry Billy, sick though he was, out of the house. He tried to reach the barn, but his strength failed, so he was forced to lay his burden upon the snow, and wrap his great-coat around the helpless man.
"Poor Billy! poor Billy!" said the parson in conclusion. "He was careless about higher things. I hope the good Lord will not judge him too harshly."
"But he was not always like that, father," Nellie remarked.
"No, no, thank God. He had a happy home when I first came to this parish, long before you were born. I have often told you about the sweet, God-fearing wife he had then. But after she was laid to rest a great change took place in Billy's life. He became very rebellious and never darkened the church door. He acquired a great passion for money, and grew to be most miserly. As the years passed his harshness increased. He waxed sullen and disagreeable. His neighbours shunned him and he looked upon them all with a suspicious eye. His money he never placed in a bank, but kept it in his house in gold coin, in a strong, iron box, so I have been told, and would count it over and over again with feverish delight."
"But, father," remonstrated Nellie, "there must have been something good in poor old Billy. You know how fond he was of Tony Stickles."
"True, very true, dear. I have often wondered about the affection between the two. No one else could live with the old man, except Tony, and he served him like a faithful dog. It is generally believed that Billy confided many things to Tony. He is a peculiar lad, and people have tried in vain to find out what he knew. He will certainly feel badly when he comes out of the woods, where he is now working, and hears about Billy's death. But here we are at home. Oh dear, the journey has greatly tired me," and the parson panted heavily as he entered the house.
During the homeward walk Dan trudged along close by Nellie's side, busy with his own thoughts. He longed for something to happen that he might show her what a man he was. If a robber or a wolf, or some frightful monster, would spring out from the roadside, he would meet it single-handed, kill or drive it away. Then to behold the look of gratitude and admiration upon the woman's face as she looked at him, what bliss that would be! Little did the father and daughter realize, as they slowly walked and conversed, what thoughts and feelings were thrilling the little lad by their side, feelings which in all ages have electrified clods of humanity into heroes, and illuminated life's dull commonplaces with the golden romance of chivalry.