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