"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 f.a.n.n.y, looking down into the bottom of the boat.

"Who did it?" demanded Noddy, eagerly.

"I did it myself," answered f.a.n.n.y, looking up into his face to note the effect of the astonishing confession.

CHAPTER III.

A MORAL QUESTION.

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 f.a.n.n.y. 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 f.a.n.n.y, gazing at him with a kind of blank look, which would have a.s.sured 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 f.a.n.n.y!" 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y 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."

f.a.n.n.y'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 f.a.n.n.y 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.sociate in wrongdoing, and his present thought was how he should get her out of the sc.r.a.pe. 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 f.a.n.n.y suddenly burst into tears, and cried with a violence and an unction which were a severe trial to his nerves.

"Don't cry, f.a.n.n.y," said he; "I'll get you out of the sc.r.a.pe."

"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 sc.r.a.pe? 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 f.a.n.n.y?" 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 f.a.n.n.y, as she wiped away her tears, and appeared to be much comforted by the good resolution which was certainly the best one the circ.u.mstances admitted.

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

"I am."

"And get me into a sc.r.a.pe 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 f.a.n.n.y'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 f.a.n.n.y. 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 n.o.body 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 f.a.n.n.y, startled by the strong words of her companion.