Inna, with no apron over her head, stole out to keep her company.
"Oh my!" said Mrs. Grant to shivering Inna. "I wish Master Oscar was at home. I'm thinking he's a finger in the pie."
Ah! there was the fire, sure enough; it was a flare and a flame against the darkening sky.
"What's alight?" inquired Mrs. Grant of a man who went hurrying by.
"Poor Jackson's little farm; they say 'tis going like tinder, and he's half crazed," came back to them as the man ran on.
"Oh dear! that boy, what he'll have to answer for!" cried the housekeeper.
"But we're not sure 'tis his work," said sensible Inna.
"No, dear; but there's seldom any mischief going that he don't help in the brewing of."
Inna was silent, watching the red glare of the fire mounting heavenwards.
"You see, dearie," went on the housekeeper, "he's playing truant these two days, and I don't like to bother the doctor, and get him into trouble. I hide what I can, in pity for his friendlessness."
"Hasn't he anybody but Uncle Jonathan?" inquired Inna.
"No, dearie; father and mother both dead, leaving him not a penny. 'Twould have been a sad life but for master, as I tell him; but I think that sets him more against the right than ever."
"Suppose you weren't to tell him, but ask him to do his studies, and--and right things, for love of duty and love of pleasing you?" suggested Inna.
"That's where it is. I think if he had a sister--now, if you were to get him to love you, you'd be able to do anything with him. Love for anybody is a mighty power, though 'tis said to be like a silk thread--something not seen, but felt--you see, 'tis stronger than it seems."
"Yes," sighed Inna; "mamma says a loving heart will find work to do anywhere. Yes, mamma, I will try," said she inwardly, thinking of her last talk with her dear mother, and that only on the evening before yesterday, so short, and yet so long a time ago.
Well, Oscar did not come, so the two went in, leaving the fire to flare itself out. Neither did Dr. Willett and Mr. Barlow return. It was quiet anxious work, sitting there by the log-fire, hearkening 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.