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“Come, let us light a big fire,” said Rowton. “I’ll soon set it going; here are logs of wood and lumps of coal; fetch me an old newspaper, Nancy. Now we’ll set to work.”

He dropped on his knees as he spoke, used his great hands deftly, and in a moment or two a huge fire was roaring merrily up the old chimney.

“There now, that’s better,” he said. “You shall warm yourself—you shall get back your delicate complexion. Why, my wild bird, you wanted me sorely. Give me your hand—here, let me warm it. Sit on my knee close to this blaze; it will tingle right through you. Whisper one word to me, sweetheart; when did you last have a right, good, comforting meal?”

“Never mind about that, Adrian; how can I eat when my poor father is dying? I love him, although——”

“Although he turned your life into a hell,” interrupted the young man fiercely.

“That is true,” she replied; “but never mind that now—he has gone through fearful sorrow, and I am heart and soul with him in everything.”

“Well, dearest, he is your father and one cannot account for the feelings of affectionate girls like yourself. Thank heaven! I never had home ties—I cannot remember my father—my mother died when I was an infant—I was brought up in the roughest imaginable school. Yes, the school of life was hard on me, and it has turned me out a pretty rough specimen; a rough diamond, eh! sweet Nancy?”