All the day long, Stephen, instead of going to his work in the pit, had been rambling, without aim or purpose, over the dreary uplands; here and there stretching himself upon the wiry heath, where the sun had dried away the snow, and hiding his face from the light, while he gave way to an anguish of grief, and broke the deep silence with a loud and very bitter cry.  It was death, sudden death, he was lamenting.  Only yesterday morning little Nan was clinging strongly to his neck, and covering his face with merry kisses; and every now and then he felt as if he was only dreaming, and he started down towards home, as though he could not believe that those tender arms were stiffened and that rosy mouth still in death.  But before he could run many paces the truth was borne in upon his aching heart that she was surely dead; and never more in this life would he see and speak to her, or listen to her lisping tongue.  Little Nan, dearest of all earthly things,—­perhaps dearer to him in the infancy of his Christian life than the Saviour Himself,—­was removed from him so far that she was already a stranger, and he knew nothing of her.

Towards evening he found himself, in his aimless wandering, drawing near to Fern’s Hollow, where she had lived.  The outer shell of the new house was built up, the three rooms above and below, with the little dairy and coal-shed beside them, and Stephen, even in his misery, was glad of the shelter of the blank walls from the cutting blast of the north wind; for he felt that he could not go home to the cabin where the dead child—­no longer darling little Nan—­was lying.  Poor Stephen!  He sat down on a heap of bricks upon the new hearth, where no household fire had ever been kindled; and, while the snow-flakes drifted in upon him unheeded, he buried his face again in his hands, and went on thinking, as he had been doing all day.  He would never care to come back now to Fern’s Hollow.  No! he would get away to some far-off country, where he should never more hear the master’s name spoken.  Let him keep the place, he thought, and let it be a curse to him, for he had bought it with a child’s blood.  If the law gave him back Fern’s Hollow, it would not avenge little Nan’s death; and he had no power.  But the master was a murderer; and Stephen knelt down on the desolate hearth, where no prayer had ever been uttered, and prayed God that the sin and punishment of murder might rest upon his enemy.

Was it consolation that filled Stephen’s heart when he rose from his knees?  It seemed as if his spirit had grown suddenly harder, and in some measure stronger.  He did not feel afraid now of going down to the cabin, where the little lifeless corpse was stretched out; and he strode away down the hill with rapid steps.  When the thought of Martha, and his grandfather, and Miss Anne crossed his mind, it was with no gentle, tender emotion, but with a strange feeling that he no longer cared for them.  All his love was gone with little Nan.