kening to the ticking
of the old clock, waiting for someone who did not come--someone up to
mischief, as Mrs. Grant said. Out she went again, with her apron over
her head.

"Burnt to the ground, dearie--burnt to a tinder, is the farm: so Sam,
our carter, says; and 'twas done by some idle boys lighting a bonfire of
dry furze near." This was her report when she returned to the kitchen.

Then they heard the master and Mr. Barlow come in, and the housekeeper
went to carry them in supper. Ten o'clock, and they were going out
again, Inna heard them say. The little girl now stole out herself to the
back gates; there, in the shadow of the wall, she saw a moving shadow.

"Oscar!" She spoke his name; and Oscar stepped out into the moonlight
beside her.

"Where have you been?" she ventured.

"Where I like."

"Yes; but have you seen the fire?"

"Yes, I suppose I have."

"Did you--did you have----"

"Did I have a hand in setting it alight? Ah yes! there you go--you're
all alike."

"No, Oscar; no, but----" her small hands were clinging to his arm.

"Hands off!" cried he, shaking her off, as if he could not bear her even
to touch him.

His sleeve was in tatters, she felt, before he shook himself free.

"I want you to do something for me," said he, gloomily enough.

A startled "Yes," was the reply.

"Go and get some oil and some flour, and come up to my room--you know
your way in the dark, don't you?"

"Yes, I think----"

"Think! be sure, and be quick!" With this grumpy injunction he swung
himself away, hugging the shadows, and so into the house and upstairs.

Tap! tap! Gentle little Samaritan--she had the oil, if not the wine; and
when he bade her enter, she saw that she had indeed to bind up his
wounds. He stood with his arm bare to the elbow--a poor scorched arm,
from which charred skin was hanging.

"Now, see here: mix some flour and oil into a paste in this pomatum-pot,
and spread it on this handkerchief; then bind it on to my arm, and hold
your tongue. Can you do it, do you think?"

"Yes;" and the small girlish hands soon had the plaster ready.

"Poor arm!" said she, as the boy winced at her kindly but bungling
dressing.

"Fudge!" scoffed he.

"Oh, I wish you hadn't had anything to do with it!" tearing a
handkerchief into strips to bind it on with.

"Yes, that's all you know about it. What has Mother Peggy been saying
about me? I'm the dog with a bad name; I suppose she's hanged me."

"No; she sa