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.