FOR the third and last time that evening Philip stepped upon the stage; he knew his audience now, and they knew him, and settled back to enjoy the treat which surely awaited them; and they were not disappointed. The boy threw his whole soul into his music, and the vast building might almost have been empty, so silent was the listening crowd. And then there came a moment’s pause between the movements in the music, and Philip threw back his head for an instant in a way he had; as he did so he saw something which drove the blood to his heart, for high above his head a corner of light drapery had been blown against a lighted gas-jet, and a little curling tongue of flame had just started on its way along the edge of the curtain. Philip went on at once with his playing, but as he played he stepped, almost unperceived, nearer to one side of the stage, where he knew the manager was standing, and whispered:

“Look, above your head,” and the sweet, unfaltering melody flowed smoothly on; but soon the little tongue of flame had crept around to the front of the curtain, and suddenly a strange agitation seemed to possess the audience. The people rose to their feet in evident alarm, frightened cries were heard, and some rushed from their seats into the aisles, while from some quarter came the terrible cry of “Fire!” The manager came to the front of the stage and implored the people to be calm and avoid the crowding and crushing that would result unless they left the building in an orderly way, for which he assured them there was abundant time if they would avoid a panic. For a moment they listened to his exhortation and seemed to obey, but even as he spoke the flames began to dart through the billow-like rolls of smoke that curled around the wall upon one side. Then there was an instant’s hush of dismay as the fire caught the end of some hanging drapery, and followed its festoonings, in a wild, blazing wreath, around the room, catching in its mad rush the light varnished wood trimmings, that burned like tinder. The crowd became ungovernable then, and a frightful scene of confusion ensued as they fought their way toward the entrance, defeating, in their frantic haste, the efforts of those who were cool enough to direct their movements.

Philip, while the manager was speaking, had stood with calm self-possession, revolving in his mind what was best to be done. It would have been very easy to have retreated at once through the back of the stage, but of this he did not think for an instant, and he turned towards the box where the young Nortons were sitting. It was only a few feet above the stage, and he sprang towards it, holding out his hands.

“Come,” he said, “come quickly! It is but a step; jump upon the stage and we will get out through the dressing-room. I know the way, and it is the only thing to do—the corridors are already blocked.”

Miss Acton helped the girls over the edge of the box and down upon the stage, following herself with Philip’s assistance.

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“Safe, I am sure,” replied Miss Acton, speaking quickly. “There’s a staircase near the entrance of their box.”

“Then come with me,” said Philip.

They remembered afterwards how calm he was, and that he looked back and smiled encouragement over his shoulder as he rapidly led the way towards the back of the stage; but the flames had made great headway in the short time since they were first discovered, and the narrow passageways behind the wings were filled with smoke. For an instant Philip hesitated, but glancing back he saw that there was no hope of escape through the house, which was filled with a pushing, struggling mass of terrified men and women. He turned again, bidding the others follow him, and they obeyed; but when he had led them to the back of the stage, in the very direction in which the fire was approaching, Marion shrank back and refused to follow.

“But you will die if you stay,” exclaimed Philip, seizing her arm and drawing her forcibly along, and at the same time calling to the others to follow, which they did, pale and trembling, but never attempting to question his wisdom in leading them through a door at which the flames were already darting.

“I cannot go there, I cannot!” screamed Marion, pulling back and looking toward the auditorium, where the struggling people were packed closer and closer about the door, and where terrible cries of anguish told that the bitterness of death was coming to some upon whom the stronger and fiercer trampled, without waiting for the flames they were fleeing from.

There was no hope there, and Philip knew there was no time to be lost, so he half lifted, half dragged Marion through the door, still resisting, but half fainting with terror. There was a long lobby to go through, then another door to open, and they found themselves in a small triangular room in which was one window and another door opening upon a narrow staircase, which led directly to one of the outer doors. To this door Philip sprang as they entered the little apartment, but, alas! it was securely locked and the key withdrawn; he made one mad effort to force the door, but it offered the firmest resistance. Then he remembered that at rehearsal the manager had given him a key, that he might leave the building by that door after his last piece should be played, if he chose not to wait for the end of the concert. Unhappily, instead of putting the key in his pocket, he had carried it to his dressing-room, and now he remembered distinctly having thrown it upon the table.There was one appalling moment of dismay for them all, then Lillie said solemnly:

“Go and try to save yourself, Philip; perhaps you can find a way out if you have not us to take care of.”

“I will save you yet,” said Philip with quiet determination. “I will go for the key,” and he rushed away from them through the narrow passage toward the stage, where the fire now roared and thundered with a fury indescribable. His dressing-room could be reached by a short hallway behind the stage. It was chokingly full of thick, black smoke, but, holding his breath, he dashed through it and gained the place he sought. The dressing-room was also full of smoke, but he seized the key and rushed again to the passage. In that instant of time fire had taken the place of smoke, and it seemed as if to attempt to go through it would be to court certain and swift destruction. There was another door, and it led, as Philip knew, to the large back stairway in that part of the building as yet unattacked by the flames. To open the door and fly down those stairs meant escape from a fiery death; but to go would be to leave his friends to perish miserably in the little room to which he had taken them. He hesitated only long enough to tear off his coat and drench it in a basin of water; then wrapping it over his head, he plunged into the gulf of fire. What the horror and agony of that passage was, no one will ever know; but he reached his cousins, who were already driven, by smoke and approaching flames, into the remotest corner of the little room. He threw them the key as he fell to the floor, unable to take another step.

They opened the door, and between them dragged him into the purer air and supported him down the stairs to the street, where he was at once taken care of by the crowd who were gathered to look on and assist if possible.

The panic in the front of the house soon subsided, for the fire-engines which came from all over London quickly put out the flames, and the greatest damage caused by the fire had been behind the stage. But many had been trampled on and injured in the stampede of the audience for the doors, and the police and ambulance surgeons had all that they could possibly do. Philip was carried immediately into a small shop in the neighborhood, where half a dozen sympathizing strangers promised to care for him and the girls, who were half unconscious from the smoke which they had inhaled, while Miss Acton went to look for the remainder of the party, who she knew would be frantic with anxiety as to the fate of the children.

She did at last succeed in finding Lord Ashden and Dr. Norton, who had sent the ladies home in a cab, while they returned to search for Philip and Miss Acton’s party, whom they had seen clambering over the box, and who they supposed had escaped without difficulty through the back way. When Miss Acton told them as quietly as she could that Philip had been hurt, although she hoped not seriously so, Lord Ashden staggered and would have fallen had not Dr. Norton supported him, and when they entered the dingy back room in the little shop where Philip lay, white and unconscious, on the sofa, his guardian sank upon the floor beside him and covered his face with his hands.

“My boy, my boy!” he moaned. But in an instant he recovered himself and made arrangements to have the whole party taken home as quickly as possible.

The surgeon, whose services had at last been secured, did what he could to restore Philip to consciousness, but without success. “He is suffering from shock,” he said, “and may remain insensible for several hours. Get him home and to bed as quickly as possible; I do not think his burns are serious.”

And he hurried away to relieve the sufferings of a lady who had been trampled on by the crowd.

It was a sad party which drove back to Kensington; the sisters were only half aroused from the sort of stupor which seemed to have fallen upon them, and they lay back in the carriage, while upon the other seat sat Lord Ashden, supporting the unconscious Philip in his arms, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the boy’s face with an expression of silent agony.Miss Acton and Dr. Norton, who had driven home more rapidly, reached the house in time to prepare the minds of Mrs. Norton and Aunt Delia, and to get rooms and beds in readiness for the sufferers, and despatch messengers for medical aid.

The physician who examined Philip shook his head and looked grave, although he spoke encouragingly. The patient was suffering principally from shock and from the effects of the smoke which he had inhaled in such quantities. His burns were not serious, however, though they would doubtless be painful and require careful nursing; he proposed, nevertheless, to spend the night with his patient, and asked that a trained nurse be sent for at once, while, for the present at least, everybody must be excluded from the sick-room but Aunt Delia and himself.

And so, after the poor burned hands had been tenderly dressed and the little sufferer made as clean and comfortable as possible, the silence which had been so imperatively ordered settled down upon the sick-room, and there was no sound but the quick, irregular breathing of the patient and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.