All hands were now directed to save the small cottage belonging to the Widow Dacre, but with very little effect, for the wind which came down from the hills with furious blasts seemed to mock at every effort to extinguish the fire, while it fanned the faintest spark into a flame, and then spread it with wonderful rapidity. But it was not for the sake of the tiny cottage, which its owner had long since vacated, they all labored so zealously, but because it now seemed a link between the ruined village and the dwelling which all looked upon with interest. Romance seemed to have cast a kind of charm round the little family, to which Mabel belonged.

Upon whose threshold had Mabel's light step been unwelcome? And who was not ready to protect the roof that sheltered her from danger?

Now, as all eyes watched the building, it was, for the first time, perceived, that no one stirred within; the shutters were fast closed, and there was not the slightest sign that the general alarm had reached it.

"Is it possible," said the stranger, turning to Clair, "that amidst all this din and confusion they should sleep on and hear nothing?"

"I will go and try to get in," said Clair.

"And I," said the stranger, as they walked both together to the door and rung the bell, at first gently, but more loudly as they heard no one moving.

Presently a shuffling step was heard, and a somewhat sulky "Who's there?" from within.

"It is I," said Clair, "open the door, for the village is on fire."

The door was immediately thrown open and old John the gardener staggered back as he perceived the red sky, which glared above him on all sides.

"The ladies!—" he exclaimed.

"We will take care of them, only go and dress, and then come and help us," said Clair.

John speedily availed himself of this permission, and then, with considerable coolness, he hurried to the stable after his mistress's Bath chair, which had not seen the light for many a month.

Meanwhile, the two gentleman hurried up stairs; they had, however, scarcely reached the landing-place, when they heard a shout from the outside, which made the stranger spring back down the stairs to ascertain the cause, begging Clair to remain. The latter, accordingly, began to search for the bed-rooms inhabited by Mrs. Lesly and her daughter. Having hastily tapped at one, and receiving no answer, he did not hesitate to open it. Here a night lamp was dimly burning, and, when he looked at the heavy oak shutters, and the closely drawn curtains, and perceived the stillness within, he no longer wondered that they slept. This was Mrs. Lesly's room, and, on a bed at her feet, reposed the faithful servant Betsy, and so soundly that Clair had to shake her with some little violence before he could awaken her. Her expressions of terror soon roused Mrs. Lesly, to whom Clair explained as much as he thought proper, begging her to get up and allow him to take her from the house, should it be necessary, saying he would wait for her on the outside.

She needed no second bidding, but suffered the affrighted Betsy to assist her to rise. Clair left the room with the intention of conveying the same warning to Mabel, but, before he could do so, the stranger hurried to him, and, seizing him by the hand, he wrung it wildly, saying,

"That shout told that the back part of the house is already burning. Will you take care of Mrs. Lesly and her maid? promise me not to leave them till they are safe, and I hope I can manage the rest."

There was one other duty which Clair would willingly have chosen, but there was now no time for parley, and the eager pressure of the hand, which the stranger returned for his promise, made him no longer regret it. But, as he leant against the wall of the passage, waiting for Mrs. Lesly, his countenance became more and more haggard in appearance, and his bloodless lips and heavy eyes rather spoke of mental pain than the fatigue of bodily exertion.

But, there was not much time to think, the passage in which he waited began to feel intolerably warm, and the air gradually thickened with smoke.

He then called eagerly to Mrs. Lesly, and once again entering the room where poor Betsy was sobbing with alarm, he hastily finished her preparations, by taking up an immense cloak which lay on the floor, and wrapping it round the poor invalid, who was coughing violently from the exertion of dressing, he hurried her from the room, and down stairs to the open air.

Here he was rejoiced to see the faithful gardener.

"Put missis in here," he said, dragging the chair forward, which he had provided for her—"for I don't know which'll do her most harm, the fire or the air."

"That's right," said Clair, placing her in it, and as he did so, stooping down kindly, to sooth her anxiety for her children, and covering her up from the night air, which blew chilly upon her, for she had not left her bed for several weeks.

Hiding her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, she turned away at once from the terrific scene before her, and the many cherished objects of her home, soon, perhaps, to be the spoil of the raging fire. A thousand recollections crowded upon her mind, which was too sensitive, and too delicately framed for the struggles of common life. The acuteness of her feelings, added bitterness to every trial, by representing them to her in the most touching, and even poetical light, till her heart was entirely overcome by the sufferings she was too skilled in describing to herself. In vain Clair endeavoured to comfort her, as he accompanied her a little way on the road to the Manor House, when, finding his presence of little service, he left her in the hands of her careful servant, and hastened back to afford any assistance he could offer to the sisters.

During his absence, the stranger had not been idle; assured of Mrs. Lesly's safety by the promise which Clair had given him; he turned to another door, and, too impatient to summon its owner, he opened it gently. Here, too, a lamp was burning, and the light that it spread around, was quite sufficient for his rapid gaze. He turned to the bed where lay the beautiful, delicately shaped child; her countenance still wet with tears, yet serene and happy as if her dreams were not of earth. Mabel's head lay upon the same pillow; the little hand in hers, and the rich curls of her chestnut hair, half concealing her face; she seemed, in her motionless slumber, like some trusting child, who knows that watchful eyes guard her from danger—yet sorrow in many shapes, had been, and was still around her.

He paused—the hasty call which would have wakened both, died upon his lips; and he stood, as if entranced, and forgetful of the danger which every moment's delay increased. He bent forward, and earnestly contemplated the sleepers, and, as he did so, a smile passed over Mabel's face, and she murmured something which made him listen still more earnestly.

But, now she starts, her bosom heaves as if something troubled her. Again, she sleeps—but only to start again—her hand unclasps, she turns as if in pain—then, leaping to her feet—she suddenly stands before him—yet scarcely roused from the dream which had awakened her.

Light, brighter than the moon, and more glowing than the sunshine, streamed in upon the room, and rendered the stranger's face clearly visible; Mabel's eyes fixed upon him with something between terror and surprise; she tried to speak, but her lips trembled so convulsively, that she could not utter a sound—she tried to advance, but she felt that his eye quelled every movement; and what did that dark look mean, with which he regarded her; and why, as it grew more dark, did Mabel's form become more erect, while her lips curled, her cheeks flushed crimson, and her eye also fixed on his, flashed with a fiery pride, which but seldom showed itself upon her face. Yet, this was but for a moment, for the stranger taking the cloak which he had brought for the purpose, he threw it round her, and raising her almost from the ground with the rapidity of his movements, he hurried her from the room, and down the stairs. When they reached the garden, he loosened his hold, and suffered the cloak, which had entirely covered her face and head, to fall back. Mabel looked wildly round; a busy crowd was about the house; the sickly smell of fire was in the air, and, as she gazed back, she saw flames bursting from the lower windows of their cottage. In an instant she had freed herself, and springing past him with a wild cry of terror and agony, she entered the house, and through the smoke and sparks scattered about her, she was once again by Amy's side, who was awake, and greatly terrified; and, as Mabel threw herself upon her knees beside her, she cried:—

"Do not leave me, Mabel dear—I shall die if you do."

"Leave you, my darling," cried Mabel, "nothing but death shall part us."

"If you had waited but a moment, I would have brought her to you," said the stranger.

"Oh, why did you think of me first," cried Mabel.

"'Twas wrong, perhaps," said the stranger; "but it made only the difference of a few moments. Come, my child," said he, stooping to lift her from her couch.

"No, no," said Mabel, "you must take couch and all. Oh!" said she, wringing her hands, "will no one come and help you?"

"I am not afraid of fire," said a gruff voice, and Martin entered; "I'll help, but you must make haste."

"But my Mamma, where is she?" exclaimed Mabel.

"She is safe, and the two servants are with her."

"Oh then, dear Amy, let us go to them," she said; and, in a quick but concise manner, she explained how the springs of the couch might be altered, so as to render the carriage of it more easy.

The counterpane was then laid closely over, and a shawl placed over Amy's face, and the stranger and Martin, carrying the couch, proceeded carefully to leave the house—Mabel, bending over her sister, and soothing her at every step, while she placed herself in the way of anything which was blowing towards them, seemingly forgetful of her own safety; but, though nothing shielded her, she passed through the fire entirely uninjured.

Occupied as all were, each with his separate interests, few could resist a feeling of admiration for the beautiful girl, who, in her own simple neighbourhood, had won so much of the love of those around her.

Bending over the couch, which the stranger and Martin bore between them, her hair blown in wild disorder about her face, which shewed a thousand mingled feelings, as she sometimes turned, shrinking, from the terrible scene around her, to which she had so suddenly awakened—sometimes, looking up in strange bewilderment, but always, with out-stretched hands, placing her unprotected figure between the loved child, and the sparks and timbers, which were repeatedly blown across the road; she looked like some wild and beautiful spirit of the storm, which it had no power to harm. The uneasy motion gave the greatest anguish to poor Amy, who, though usually so patient, uttered shriek after shriek of agony, which pierced the hearts of those who hurried round in the vain hope of affording assistance. At every turn they took, fresh torturing cries broke from the little sufferer, who, agonised with pain, and terrified at the scene around her, lost every power of self-control.

Entirely overcome by the cries, of the poor little sufferer, Mabel entreated them to stop, and rather to lay her on the road side, than take her further; Martin, who, though a bold, and not an over humane man, looked pale and sick with the duty he had undertaken, readily suggested that they might place her in the lodge, which had long been deserted by its owner—an old woman—who had taken refuge with the children at the Manor House.

To this the stranger consented; and, after some little difficulty, they contrived to lay her in the old woman's room.

"It is the hardest night's work I've ever had," said Martin, as he turned away. "I'll go and send some one to her, sir, as will do more good than I can."

Poor Amy's shrieks had been heart-rending when they laid her down; but shortly afterwards, they subsided into a low moaning sound.

"Though there's plenty of fire," said Martin, "I don't think there's a candle left in all the place; but I'll find one if I can."

He then went away, and the stranger alone remained, for no one else had followed so far but Clair, who had now gone to call his aunt.

"Can I do anything more for you?" said the stranger, in a voice trembling with emotion.

Mabel raised her eyes, and as they met his for an instant, a warm blush overspread her pale countenance.

"Bless you for what you have done," she murmured, despairingly.

"Water?" said Amy, opening her eyes.

Mabel turned entreatingly to the stranger, who, without another word, left the room.

Martin soon afterwards returned with a light, and placed it on the floor, and Mabel again entreated for water to moisten Amy's parched lips; but it was more difficult to obtain than she imagined, for the whole furniture of the house had been long since removed, and the empty cupboard looked comfortless indeed.

But, in a short while, the stranger returned, and presented her with a cup of pure water, which she eagerly gave to Amy.

"Thank you, sir," said Amy, gently, "and thank you for carrying me. Did you mind my crying? I felt very ill, and could not help it," she looked at him timidly. "Sir," she continued, rousing herself with an energy which surprised him, "Mabel will soon be alone. Do you think any one will comfort her, and take care of her?"

"May I," said he, to Mabel, suddenly moving towards them, "may I speak to her alone?"

"Yes, yes," said Amy, eagerly, "let him speak to me."

"Her time is precious;" said Mabel, rising reluctantly, "do not keep me from her long."

"No, I will not, but a few minutes," said the stranger, hurriedly, and Mabel leaving the room went into the open air, and, leaning against the door way, she tried to tranquillize her thoughts. The village was shut out by the tall trees which surrounded the entrances to the Manor House, and the low sighing of the wind, which was now beginning to sink, was the only sound which met her ear, while the busy clouds, dimly lighted by the occasional appearance of the moon, traced their way across the heavens. There were wild thoughts in her own mind, which made her heart beat tumultuously. With a sudden burst of anguish, she threw herself upon her knees, and laid her forehead upon the cold earth in the bitterness of her soul.

She only rose when she heard the stranger's step, and then, passing him quickly, for she dared not trust herself to speak, she re-entered the room.

Amy's cheeks were flushed, and the look of pain seemed entirely to have passed away. Her eyes were bright, "as if gazing on visions of ecstasy," while over her white countenance was spread a halo, at once so childlike and so serene that Mabel stepped more softly and knelt in silence by her side.

Amy put out her hand, and fondly stroked her cheeks and smoothed her hair.

"You are very beautiful, Mabel dear," she said, with gentle pride, as if she spoke to her own thoughts, "and you look more and more beautiful because you are so good, and what pretty hair," she said, still speaking to herself, while her sister blushed unconsciously at her praises.

"Oh, it is a dear, good Mabel," said Amy, fondly; then changing her tone, and dropping her hands upon her bosom with simple devotion, she said, softly—

"Sing me to sleep."

Mabel made a strong effort to overcome her emotion.

"I hear old John outside," said Amy, suddenly, though her sister could hear nothing, "but I cannot see him," and her eyes filled with tears, "but will you tell him to let no one else come, for I want to be alone a little while, I feel better with you. Ah, poor mamma," she added, thoughtfully, "but I cannot see her either, to-night."

Old John was at the door as Amy had said, and Mabel telling him to keep any one from coming in, as Amy was going to sleep, returned to her and then began the evening hymn. Sweetly did those beautiful lines sound, breathed in low and trembling melody, but she had scarcely finished the third verse when sobs stopped her utterance, she was, however, trying to go on, but Amy laid her hand upon her lips.

"Don't go on, Mabel, dear, I shall soon hear angels' music. They are waiting for me now, but I must go alone," she said, "and your dear voice is the last sound I wished to hear on earth. Do not leave me," she added, seeing her attempt to rise, "you have done all that can be done for me, and you must not go away now."

Mabel saw indeed that it was too late to call for assistance, and she scarcely breathed, lest a word might escape her ear.

"You have been very kind to me," murmured Amy, in faint accents, "and it is very hard to part, but listen, listen," said she, holding up her tiny hand; then, as if the sound were dying away, her hand fell softly down, and all was over. A holy stillness stole over the chamber of death, unbroken by a sound, for Mabel's anguish was too great for tears.

The old gardener had seated himself on the door step, and tears chased each other down his weather beaten cheeks, as he listened to Mabel's low singing, and remembered how often the voices of both had mingled in gay and thrilling merriment, which had made his old heart dance, when he had pretended not even to hear them.

"Ah," thought he, "let the old house burn since they that made it glad are going or gone." But then came thoughts of the sunny garden, made more pleasant by the cheerful faces and glad voices now hushed by death or sorrow, his grief burst out afresh, and, burying his head in, his knees, he gave himself up to old recollections, heedless of every thing about him.

END OF VOL. I.

T. C. Newby, Printer, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square.