One evening, the evening previous to the day set for Nelly’s departure—­how well I remember it—­I found her sitting alone by the wide chimney-piece looking musingly at the crackling back log.  There were no candles in the room.  On her face and hands, and on the small golden cross at her throat, fell the flickering firelight—­that ruddy, mellow firelight in which one’s grandmother would look poetical.

I drew a low stool from the corner and placed it by the side of her chair.  She reached out her hand to me, as was her pretty fashion, and so we sat for several moments silently in the changing glow of the burning logs.  At length I moved back the stool so that I could see her face in profile without being seen by her.  I lost her hand by this movement, but I couldn’t have spoken with the listless touch of her fingers on mine.  After two or three attempts I said “Nelly” a good deal louder than I intended.

Perhaps the effort it cost me was evident in my voice.  She raised herself quickly in the chair and half turned towards me.

“W’ell, Tom?”

“I—­I am very sorry you are going away.”

“So am I. I have enjoyed every hour of my visit.”

“Do you think you will ever come back here?”

“Perhaps,” said Nelly, and her eyes wandered off into the fitful firelight.

“I suppose you will forget us all very quickly.”

“Indeed I shall not.  I shall always have the pleasantest memories of Rivermouth.”

Here the conversation died a natural death.  Nelly sank into a sort of dream, and I meditated.  Fearing every moment to be interrupted by some member of the family, I nerved myself to make a bold dash.

“Nelly.”

“Well.”

“Do you—­” I hesitated.

“Do I what?”

“Love anyone very much?”

“Why, of course I do,” said Nelly, scattering her revery with a merry laugh.  “I love Uncle Nutter, and Aunt Nutter, and you—­and Towser.”

Towser, our new dog!  I couldn’t stand that.  I pushed back the stool impatiently and stood in front of her.

“That’s not what I mean,” I said angrily.

“Well, what do you mean?”

“Do you love anyone to marry him?”

“The idea of it,” cried Nelly, laughing.

“But you must tell me.”

“Must, Tom?”

“Indeed you must, Nelly.”

She had risen from the chair with an amused, perplexed look in her eyes.  I held her an instant by the dress.

“Please tell me.”

“O you silly boy!” cried Nelly.  Then she rumpled my hair all over my forehead and ran laughing out of the room.

Suppose Cinderella had rumpled the prince’s hair all over his forehead, how would he have liked it?  Suppose the Sleeping Beauty, when the king’s son with a kiss set her and all the old clocks agoing in the spell-bound castle—­suppose the young minx had looked up and coolly laughed in his eye, I guess the king’s son wouldn’t have been greatly pleased.