Nell lay in the state between sleeping and waking, looking so long at him that at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and softly rising and drawing close to him, she whispered in his ear. He moved at once, and looked into her face. "I feared you were ill," she said. "The other men are all moving, and you are so very quiet." "They leave me to myself," he replied. "They know my way. They laugh at me, but don’t harm me in it. See yonder, there—that’s my friend." "The fire?" said the child. "It has been alive for as long as I have," the man made answer. "We talk and think together all night long." The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his eyes away and was musing as before. "It’s like a book to me," he said—"the only book I ever learned to read; and many an old story it tells me. It’s music; for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You don’t know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. But you should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down again!" With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes once more, returned to his seat. The child watched him for a little time, but soon gave way to the drowsiness that came upon her, and in the dark, strange place and on the heap of ashes slept as peacefully as if the room had been a palace and her resting-place a bed of down. When she woke again, broad day was shining through the openings in the walls. The noise was still going on, and the fires were burning fiercely as before; for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there. Her friend shared his breakfast—coffee, and some coarse bread—with the child and her grandfather, and asked where they were going. She told him that they sought some distant country place, and asked what road they would do best to take. "I know little of the country," he said, shaking his head; "but there are such places yonder." "And far from here?" said Nell. "Ay, surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The road lies, too, through miles and miles all lighted up by fires like ours—a strange, black road, and one that would frighten you by night." "We are here, and must go on," said the child boldly. "Rough people—paths never made for little feet like yours—a dismal way—is there no turning back, my child?" "There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. "If you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not seek to stop us. Indeed, you do not know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from it, or you would not try to stop us; I am sure you would not." "God forbid, if it is so!" said the man, glancing from the child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes upon the ground. "I’ll show you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could do more."