TERROR had begun to spread in the wilderness north of Rainbow. The smoky wind, the growing firelight had roused all the children of the forest. Chattering birds rose high and took the way of the wind to safety. One could see flying lines of wild-fowl in the lighted heavens; faintly, as they passed, one could hear their startled cries. Deer ran aimlessly through the woods like frightened sheep. From scores of camps on lake and pond and river—from Buckhorn, from Barsook, from Five Ponds, from Sabattis, from Big and Little Sandy, from Lost River—people, who had seen the fire coming, were on their way out of the woods.

Master ran at first down Leonard's Trail with the boy and girl in his arms. Soon his thoughts halted him. He had withstood the severest trial that may be set before a man. To be compelled to seek safety with the children, while a woman took the way of peril before his eyes, had made him falter a moment.

He hoped that Sinth had left the ridge, now overrun with flames, and fled down the slope. If so she would be looking for Leonard's Trail. He stopped every few paces and sent a loud halloo into the woods. Fire was crackling down the side of the ridge. As he looked back it seemed to him that the great lake of hell must be flooding into the world.

Soon the trail led him to Sinth, who was on her knees and sobbing beside her brother.

That wiry little woman had struggled there alone with energy past all belief. She thought only of the danger and forgot her pain. She had toiled with the heavy body of her brother, as the ant toils with a burden larger than itself, dragging it slowly, inch by inch, in the direction of Harris's. She had moved it a distance of some fifty feet before she heard the call of Master. Then she fell moaning and clinging to the hands of him she loved better, far better even, than she had ever permitted herself to know. It may well be doubted—O you who have probably lost patience with her long ago!—if anything in human history is more wonderful than the lonely struggle of hers in that dim, flaring, threatening hell-glow.

Master quickly knelt by the fallen Emperor. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"He's gi'n out—done fer me until he can't do no more," she wailed.

She put her arms around the great breast of the man and laid her cheek upon it tenderly. Then her heart, which had always hidden its fondness, spoke out in a broken cry:

"Silas Strong—speak t' me. I can't—I can't spare ye nohow—I can't spare ye."

The children knelt by her and called with frightened voices: "Uncle Silas! Uncle Silas!" Strong began to move. Those beloved voices had seemed to call him back. He put his hand on the head of Sinth and drew it close to him.

"B-better times!" he whispered. "B-better times, I tell ye, s-sis!"

He struggled to his knees.

"S-say," he said to Master, "I've been shot. T-tie yer han'kerchief r-round my arm quick." The young man tied his handkerchief as directed. Then Strong tried to rise, but his weight bore him down.

"Lie still," said Master. "I can carry you." He took the rope from Zeb's collar and looped it over the breast of the helpless man and drew its ends under his arms and knotted them. Then, while Sinth supported her brother, the young man reached backward over his shoulders and, grasping the rope, lifted his friend so their backs were against each other, and, leaning under his burden, struggled on with it, the others following.

It was a toilsome, painful journey to Harris's. But what is impossible when the strong heart of youth, warmed with dauntless courage, turns to its task? We that wonder as we look backward may venture to put the query, but dare not answer it.

Often Master fell to his knees and there steadied himself a moment with heaving breast, then tightened his thews again and rose and measured the way with slow, staggering feet.

An hour or so later a clear-voiced call rang through the noisy wind. They stopped and listened.

"Somebody coming," said Master.

He answered with, a loud halloo as they went on wearily. Soon they saw some one approaching in the dusky trail.

"Who's there?" the young man asked.

"Edith Dunmore," was the answer that trembled with gladness. "Oh, sir! I would have gone through the fire."

"I know," said he, "you would have gone through the fire."

"For—for you," she added, brokenly.

Master dared not lay down his burden. He toiled on, his heart so full that he could not answer. The girl walked beside him for a moment of solemn, suggestive silence. She could dimly see the prostrate body of Strong on the back of her lover, and understood. What a singular and noble restraint was in that meeting!

"I love you—I love you, and I want to help you," she said, as she walked beside him.

"Help Miss Strong," he answered. "She is badly burned."

Little Sue was overcome with weariness and fear, and could not be comforted.

The maiden carried her with one arm and with the other supported Sinth. So, slowly, they made their way over the rough trail.

"How came you here?" Master inquired, presently.

"We saw the fire coming and hurried to Slender Lake, and fled in boats and came down the river."

When, late in the night, the little band of lovers reeled across the dimlit clearing, it was in sore distress. Their feet dragged, their hearts and bodies stooped with heaviness. A company of woods-folk, who stood in front of Harris's looking off at the fire, ran to meet them. They lifted the dragging Emperor and helped the young man carry him in-doors. Master was no sooner relieved of his burden than he fell exhausted on the floor.

Edith Dunmore knelt by him and raised his hands to her lips. She helped him rise, and then for a moment they stood and trembled in each other's arms, and were like unto the oak and the vine that clings to it.

Dunmore and his mother stood looking at them. The white-haired man had taken the children in his arms.

"I thought she went to bed and to sleep long ago," he muttered.

"Without her we should have perished," said the old lady. .

"Yes, and she shall have her way," he answered. "One might as well try to keep the deer out of the lily-pads." He kissed the boy and girl, and added, with a sigh, "This world is for the young."