Outside the house the wind, blowing through the trees of the forest, rose and sank in piteous wails and moans, by turns, and the snow fell in angry, fitful blasts, and whirled and turned, eddied and drifted, as if it were a thing of life. The weather was bitter cold; but the fire on the great hearth in front of the children seemed to feel that while the grown folks were away it was its duty to be careful of the children, and to be gentle, tender, and comforting to them; so it spluttered, popped, and cracked like the sociable, amiable, and tender-hearted fire that it was. It invited the children to go near it and to take its warmth, and told, as plainly as a fire could,—and a fire can talk, not English perhaps, but a very understandable language of its own,—that it would not burn them for worlds. So, as I said, the children sat inside the huge fireplace, and cared little whether or not the cold north wind blew. After “Simon” had grown tiresome, Liney told riddles, all of which Tom, who had heard them before, spoiled by giving the answer before the others had a chance to guess. Then Limpy propounded a few riddles, but Liney, who had often heard them, would not disappoint her brother by telling the answers. Balser noticed this, and said, “Limpy, you ought to take a few lessons in good manners from your sister.” “Why ought I?” asked Tom, somewhat indignantly. “Because she doesn’t tell your riddles as you told hers,” answered Balser. “He wants to show off,” said Jim. “No, he doesn’t,” said Liney. But she cast a grateful glance at Balser, which said, “Thank you” as plainly as if she had spoken the words. Tom hung his head, and said he didn’t like riddles anyway. “Let’s crack some nuts,” proposed Jim, who was always hungry. This proposition seemed agreeable to all, so Balser brought in a large gourd filled with nuts, and soon they were all busy cracking and picking. Then Liney told stories from “The Pilgrim’s Progress” and the Bible. She was at the most thrilling part of the story of Daniel in the lions’ den, and her listeners were eager, nervous, and somewhat fearful, when the faint cry of “Help!” seemed to come right down through the mouth of the chimney. “Listen!” whispered Balser, holding up his hands for silence. In a moment came again the cry, “Help!” The second cry was still faint, but louder than the first; and the children sprang together with a common impulse, and clung to Balser in unspoken fear. “Help! help!” came the cry, still nearer and louder. “Some one wants help,” whispered Balser. “I—must—go—to—him.” The latter clause was spoken rather hesitatingly. “No, no!” cried Liney. “You must not go. It may be Indians trying to get you out there to kill you, or it may be a ghost. You’ll surely be killed if you go.”