A MARTYR.

"Fire! fire! fire!"

The ominous cry rang forth through the silence of the night, and instantly there was a response. Close to Beatrix's side a slight form glided swiftly through the thick black smoke, with red-hot tongues of flame licking hungrily at her as she passed. A hand caught Beatrix's arm, and a voice cried wildly:

"Child! child! where are you going?"

Beatrix turned to meet the frightened eyes of Sister Angela.

"I am going to Keith—to my husband," she answered, trying to calm her voice so that the sister could hear her above the roar of the flames. "Ah, there is Doctor Darrow! Doctor, save those poor people below, if possible!" she went on wildly.

"My work is here!"

Douglas Darrow came to her side, and taking her hand, raised it to his lips. There was a strange expression upon his face, and his lips moved slowly, as though he were speaking in a whisper; but the words reached her ears.

"God bless and help you!" he said, hastily; and then he moved rapidly away, and Beatrix threw open the door of her husband's chamber.

Over the threshold she darted to the bedside, and stooping, she shook the sleeping man with all her strength.

"Keith! Keith!" she cried, wildly. "Wake up, my darling! The house is on fire, and I have come to save you!"

His dark eyes flew open with a dazed expression.

"Yes—yes," he faltered.

"Come, Keith, come!" She lifted him in her arms and drew him up to a sitting position. "See!" she cried; "the flames are approaching us, and we shall be cut off from all hope of safety. Come, my darling!"

He arose and dressed himself in a moment. The fire was making fearful headway. How it had originated no one could say; but it had the whole building in its awful clutches, and it was evident that it must be consumed.

Below stairs, Doctor Darrow worked like a hero, doing all within his power to save the lives of the unfortunate sick people.

At last, after an hour's hard labor, aided by the gallant firemen and the assistants belonging to the Home, all the sick were safely removed to a neighboring house which happened to be vacant, and whose doors were burst open for the purpose by Doctor Darrow.

In the midst of the bustle and confusion, the din and uproar, the shrieks of the terrified patients, the shouts of the firemen, and cheers from the crowd gathered outside, assisting with all the ardor of a New Orleans crowd, warm-hearted and sympathetic, ready to do anything for their suffering fellow-creatures, Doctor Darrow forgot even Beatrix, and knew not what had taken place.

Sister Angela, too, was fully occupied. She flitted through the smoke-filled rooms like an angel of light, helping, cheering—a very angel, indeed. The good spirits were ever with her; the sweet, pale face looked like the face of a saint.

One by one, she brought down and out into safety the children connected with the institution, for there was a large ward set apart for little ones; and of all the sufferers, old and young, not one perished from that night's awful work. None were called from this life to the life to come but one who was well prepared—even Sister Angela.

When the children were all carried forth, as was believed, it occurred to her that there was one still left within the burning building—a poor, puny little creature who had been removed from the children's ward to Sister Angela's own room—a tiny little closet at the very top of the house. In the excitement of that awful night, Sister Angela had rushed to the rescue of the little ones, and had quite forgotten the sickly little babe sleeping soundly in its cradle away up in the attic.

When all the children had been removed and the little creatures marshaled together in the big empty house opposite, one alone was found to be missing—the little one placed under the care of Sister Angela.

"The baby!" she cried, aghast. "Oh, what shall I do? It is up in my room!"

"My dear," returned the elderly sister who shared Sister Angela's labors, "I fear that it is too late, that nothing can be done. See, the whole house is wrapped in flames. I am sorry, Heaven knows, but I fear that we can do nothing."

"I must—I must at least try!" Sister Angela was wringing her hands frantically. "Oh, sister, I could not live and know that—that the child was intrusted to my care. God forbid that I should be the cause of a little child—one of Christ's little ones—losing its life!"

It seemed fanatical, for the babe was a sickly little creature, and could not live long at best; but the face of Sister Angela—white as marble—was set with a resolute look. It was evident that she would not be persuaded from her purpose.

"I must go!" she cried, wildly; "I dare not stay behind. Let me go, sister, and if—if I never come back, remember that I died in doing my duty!"

"May God and the saints have you in their holy keeping!" said the sister, solemnly. And the martyr disappeared within the flame-wrapped building. For a moment the sister gazed after the vanishing figure, then, white and horror-stricken, she started to follow her.

"I can not stand here quietly and see her go to certain death," she cried—"I can not do it."

But as she entered the burning house the black smoke engulfed her, and the fiery flames drove her back. Gasping, smothering, suffocating, she fought her way out into the open air once more, and fell in a huddled heap upon the ground in a dead swoon.

Through the horrible smoke and flames the heroic sister made her way. It seemed as if she would never reach the attic.

The stairs had not burned away; the fire seemed not to have reached them yet, and so she was able to toil slowly and painfully through the smoke up to the attic. It was a long and weary task, for the black smoke was thick and awful, and the red hot flames scorched her as she went. On—on! Was it hours or days since she started? On—on! The attic was reached at last, and blinded by the smoke, and gasping feebly for breath, Sister Angela threw open the door of her room.

The child was lying in its little cradle; it had just awakened, and was crying bitterly. The good sister flew to its side and lifted it in her arms. It was only a little babe—a sickly little creature, born of poor and unknown parents—but it was one of Christ's little ones, and this holy woman was about to die for its sake. She flew to the door of the room with the babe in her arms, held close to her breast, full of the divine mother-love which forms a part of the nature of all good women, and upon the threshold she came to a frightened halt. The smoke and flames filled the corridor, and beyond—beyond there loomed up a solid wall of fire, while smoke and flames wound around the doomed staircase and wrapped it in crimson folds.

For a moment the heroic woman stood, still holding the child in her arms—the child for whom and with whom she was about to die—her eyes fixed helplessly upon the flame-wreathed staircase, cut off from all hope. Then she went swiftly back to the room and over to the one window. She flung it open, and still clasping the child, stood there uttering piercing shrieks.

Some one heard her, and a ladder was swung up at once. Sister Angela drew forth her rosary, and with the child held close to her breast, began to pray, her face like the face of a saint reflected in the lurid light from the conflagration. The ladder was adjusted, but too late; the flames darted forth and seized it in deadly embrace. The whole house tottered now upon its foundations. Only the white face of the sister at the upper window, with the child in her arms. That picture will be remembered by those who saw it to their dying day. Only a poor, obscure Sister of Charity—a lowly life lived out amid the poor and the fallen and suffering. But who shall say that it was lived in vain?

And now another ladder was swung, but just as one of the brave and heroic firemen was about to step upon it and risk his own life, in a mad attempt to save the heroic woman above, the structure trembled violently, and the burning house gave way, the entire wing of the building falling with a horrible crash, and the white, saintly face at the upper window, with the babe upon her breast, the pale lips framing prayers, while the enraptured eyes gazed far above at that Heaven which she was so soon to enter, was seen no more—will never be seen again in this world.

Out in the cool night air Beatrix had managed to drag Keith, but at last he had fallen, faint and exhausted, to the ground, and Beatrix fell upon her knees at his side.

The first faint gleam of the early morning began to creep into the eastern sky, and still the crowd lingered about the smoking ruins, though there seemed no more to be done.

Beatrix was making up her mind to send for a cab in which to convey Keith to his home at old Bernard Dane's. It was the place for him to go, but she—she—must she seek refuge in that horrible place, the lepers' hospital, after all?

It was a grewsome thought, and as she realized what it meant to her and to Keith—the endless separation, the death in life—for the first time since she had learned of this awful sorrow, her own dark inheritance, the poor girl felt that she "could curse God and die!" And how could she know of the great good in store, the wonderful and unexpected blessing which God was about to bestow upon her? So it often is with us poor mortals. Just at the darkest hours of our lives the light is breaking, though hidden from our eyes.

At last Doctor Darrow, smoke-blackened and burned in several places, made his way to Beatrix's side. He gazed full into her face with a strange, intent look, as though seeking to read her very heart. From his lips there issued a low cry, which sounded like a cry of joy.

"God be praised!" he ejaculated. "Beatrix, listen to me: out of all this evil some good has come. You have been unconsciously subjected to the fire test, and you are burned, severely burned. Get down on your knees, and thank God for those scars, dear Beatrix, for they prove a glorious truth. Had you escaped from the fire uninjured, there would have been no doubt that the horrible scourge of leprosy existed in your system. But, Beatrix, Beatrix! you are badly burned, and—look up, dear friend—you are free from the taint of leprosy; there is no mistake!"