University of Virginia Library

35. Chapter XXXV.
The Fiery Trial.

WALTER DOBBS sat at his writing-table, reading
from the ponderous manuscript, which he called
“his book.” The light of the pendant lamp illuminated
his broad forehead, white hair and grotesque form, and it
shone, likewise, out of the small room, into the outer
apartment, around the threshold of which were gathered
Walter's listeners, intent on the reader's words; for the
author had, during several days past, been elaborating a
chapter upon such scenes as were familiar to all of them:
scenes of daily life in the great city; of people with whom
they met and spoke in their common walks; of dwellers
in lanes, and alleys, in cellars and garrets; of close-pent
rooms, in tenant-houses, and of their demoniac surroundings,
in the guise of gambling-dens, lottery-offices and
groggeries, jails and chains, fevers, starvation and death.
Of these usual sights and associations Walter had been
writing, and was now reading to his little audience; and
it is therefore, not wonderful that they heard him earnestly,
for they knew too well the truth of so sad a
chronicle.

Hubert Dobbs, the inventor, sat nearest to the table,
which, as before, stood just within his brother's door.
Hubert's countenance appeared not so troubled as formerly,
and there was evidently more elasticity in his
frame than could have been remarked at the period of his
introduction at Mr. Jobson's office. And there was a
cause, simple yet all-powerful, of the apparent improvement
in the poor man's demeanor; for now, thanks to his
stranger-guest's liberality, he was free from the debts that
formerly shackled him, and had made rapid progress
towards the completion of a machine whereon he had
expended many years of laborious research and inventive
genius, but which now, as men of science declared, was to
lay for him the foundation of a fortune. Beside Hubert
sat his wife—no longer the wretched slave of drink—no
longer with bloodshot eyes, and shaking limbs, and rent
garments—but clad neatly and with scrupulous cleanliness,
her hair parted smoothly back from a really handsome
face, her right hand resting in that of her husband,
whilst her left drew near to them the child Alice, whose
intelligent features were irradiated with happiness. The
woman's good resolution, attested by a solemn oath, had
never been broken during three months, and she was now
the comfort and supporter of Hubert Dobbs, as she had
been once the weight that dragged him down to ruin.

But there were two other individuals in that little
circle of auditors to Walter's book. The guest, whose
timely aid had rescued his host from the power of a hard
creditor, and who, nursed and tended with unremitting
care by the grateful family, had completely recovered his

strength, acknowledging Walter's skill as a surgeon, as
well as his power as a writer—this strange personage still
remained an inmate of the dwelling, and was now as
earnest in attention to the reader as were the other
hearers; quite as much, indeed, as the odd-looking personage
who sat beside him, ever and anon rubbing a
round face, with knotted hands, as some point in the
argument struck his fancy, and who was no other, in fact,
than our Hibernian acquaintance, the “hedge-schoolmaster,”
who, having contrived to attach himself as a “handy
man” to Hubert, had proved of no small use to the latter,
as an assistant in his little workshop.

“The `Tenant-House,”' thus Walter read, in a deep
voice, from his manuscript, “is at the bottom of social
degradation in our great cities! In vain may the legislator
make laws to punish crime or coerce to virtue; in vain
shall the philanthropist invent systems of amelioration;
in vain shall the preacher inveigh against licentiousness
among the poor; while the capitalist, rearing his cheap
edifices of brick and mortar, is allowed to crowd them
with human beings, debarred from the air of heaven, the
light of day, the purity of nature. To extirpate the
influence of the upas, we must not merely lop off its
branches, but we must destroy its roots, and in the earth
whence it is eradicated plant fresh and healthy seeds.
The Tenant-House is a laboratory of disease, of vice, and
of their kindred evils. Cleanse, remodel, purify the dwellings
of Poverty, and the result will be that Thrift will
displace Shiftlessness, and Industry earn bread, from lack
of which Idleness becomes Crime.”

“It is the eureka of social reform,” said the guest, as
Walter paused to turn a leaf of his papers.

“If the world would only believe it,” remarked Hubert,
sadly.

“`The world moves!”' rejoined the stranger, “even
though Galileo be tortured for truth's sake! But, hark!
what is that?”

A rush in the street without—a blow and clash, and
the sound of men's voices, and hurrying of feet—tokens
these of a fire alarm in the neighborhood—interrupted further
reading of the book; and the next moment a bright
glare, shining through the windows of the house, caused
all to hasten to the door. A chill rain beat inward, as
they opened it, and the gusty wind, entering suddenly,
extinguished the light of Walter's lamp; but they noticed
it not, for the alley outside was illuminated with the
brightness of day, the sky above reflecting a red gleam
that disclosed every object distinctly. In the narrow
street, whence the small alley or court debouched, a concourse
of men, women, and children were hurrying along,
while the din of engine-bells, the loud burst of horns, and,
above all, the measured strokes of alarm from the fire
look-outs, filled the heavy air with discordant clangor.

Walter and Hubert, with their guest and the hedge-schoolmaster,
hastily covered themselves, and emerged
from the alley into the midst of the excited throng which
poured along, and in which they were borne forward to
the corner of an adjoining street, whence they obtained a
view of the locality of the conflagration. The burning
buildings were not yet, indeed, to be discerned, but, from

the large flakes of flame, ignited shingles, and fragments
of wood that rose, volcano-like, above the tops of houses
that lined the sidewalk on which they stood, they knew
that the scene of destruction must comprise a mass of
rotten fabrics, including several tenant-houses, which occupied
an area of low land a few squares distant. At the
same time, a cry arose from voices in the crowd, through
which men were furiously dragging an engine, that “Kolephat
College was on fire!”

Kolephat College! There was not one in the multitude
of surrounding poor who did not know familiarly
the miserable ruin that had long been marked by this
appellation; the old wooden structure, years since a
church, wherein, from corner-stone to highest string-piece,
a succession of squalid inhabitants might be found, from
year to year, rising, layer upon layer, up the different
floors, distinguished only by degrees of squalor. There
was hardly a neighbor who had not, in times past, predicted
that on some occasion the besom of fire would
sweep the edifice, and that its inmates would, undoubtedly,
be smothered or burned, like rats in their holes.
Consequently, it was more than common curiosity which
prompted the people, when they heard that Kolephat
College was burning, to dash forward with renewed speed;
it was the strange desire to reach a spot where, perhaps,
human beings were, at this moment, perishing by torture
in their beds.

But if the men and women who had long dwelt in this
shabby quarter were excited by the mention of “Kolephat
College,” so, likewise, was the guest of the brothers

Dobbs—the stranger who, three months before, had been
flung down and grievously hurt by the rush of a score of
men, hurling their clattering engine along the pavement.
Since that night, the man had not tasted of liquor, but,
like the hedge-schoolmaster and Hubert's wife, had seemed
to have lost all desire for such stimulus; nevertheless, as
the words “Kolephat College” rose from the people now,
the guest became suddenly pale, and staggered like one
intoxicated.

“My God!” he ejaculated, as Walter supported his
arm—“that building contains a hundred families!”

“It is true,” murmured Walter, in reply, “and only
Heaven's mercy can save them from a cruel fate! for the
shell and partitions are like tinder, the passages confined
and crooked, the staircases steep and narrow!”

“Let us hasten thither!” cried the guest, recovering
himself. “We may be able to save some lives!” Then,
hurrying forward with the rest, he muttered, in a broken
voice—“O Mordecai Kolephat! thy wealth is cursed!
for the blood of the poor hath ever stained it!”

They soon arrived in view of the range of brick and
wooden structures forming a block, at the rear of which
was the burning building. A mass of people filled the
street, and choked the entrance of a narrow alley, the
cul-de-sac before mentioned as penetrating to the four-story
tenant-house into which Monna Maria had conducted
her god-daughter Ninetta. The fire at this time appeared
to be confined to the back portions of this building, from
the roof of which flames and fiery splinters were borne
upward like the blaze of a blasting furnace. From the

second floor of that narrow house—from the dark closet
wherein the Italian bigot sought to smother an innocent
child—the flames had worked upward through dry panels,
till they reached the story above, and thence communicated
with a wooden structure in the rear.

But the spectators thought not, at this moment, of
ascertaining the origin of the disaster which now threatened
to spread widely through the stacks of frame dwellings,
horse-stables, and workshops, that were huddled
within the limits of a few squares. The firemen shouted
loudly, as they endeavored to bring their engines nearer
to the blazing building, but were prevented by narrow,
impassable alleys, and were then obliged to draw out
great lengths of hose, carrying them over sheds, and
through passage-ways, till they might attain a position
whence water could be cast upon the flames. Cries of
alarm rose continually from the crowd, as they seemed to
catch the shrieks of tenants within the building, unable to
escape; but, save the broken limbs of a poor woman who
had plunged headlong down the staircase, in a wild effort
to descend, no accident had as yet been witnessed. Sufficient
notice, it appeared, had providentially been received
by the inmates of the house, so that they had all reached
the street in safety, with some fragments of their scanty
furniture, which were now scattered upon the wet side-walk,
their owners shivering beside them, as they watched
the ruin of their only shelter.

All!—not so; for, suddenly, a tumult rose among the
people—a great shout was heard, and then the voices of
men and women, calling to each other, in frightened

tones—“Look! look! there is a child! a child at the
window! She will be lost! the fire is all around her!”

Walter and Hubert Dobbs, with their two companions,
stood at the extremity of the range of horse-sheds that
formed an angle with the four-story building. They had
entered through the cul-de-sac, and reached nearly to the
spot where a fireman stood, with pipe in hand, preparing
to direct the first stream of water upon the flame, that
had now crept along the eaves of the brick house, and
was lapping downward, whilst, in the rear, it had spread
fiercely through the roof and upper stories of a stack of
tottering frames. Kolephat College was not, as had been
reported, yet on fire, but it was evident that, if not arrested,
the sparks and cinders must be carried by the
strong wind across the narrow lane which intervened, and
settling upon the tinder-like roofing of the old church,
soon wrap it with the devouring element. All speculation
upon this or other contigencies was banished by the new
spectacle that was visible in the third story, below which
the red tongues of fire came darting incessantly. It was
the figure of Ninetta, the dancing-girl, who, garbed in
her white night-clothes, as she had sprung from the dark
closet that had nearly been her tomb, now appeared at an
open window, her beautiful face emerging, pale as marble,
but radiant in the surrounding light, her white arms
stretched outward, imploring succor from the crowd
below.

“A ladder! a rope!—a ladder!” were the confused
exclamations of the nearest spectators, as they beheld the
child's jeopardy; and a rush was made outward from the

cul-de-sac, as if to procure the means of escape. But the
next instant a voice cried—“No ladder can be taken
through this crooked alley! The house must be entered!”
It was the fireman holding the water-pipe, who
saw at a glance that the use of ladders was impracticable
in so confined a space. At the same instant, the gallant
man placed the pipe in the hands of a comrade, and, darting
forward, disappeared within the narrow doorway of
the tenant-house. The people, meanwhile, raised their
shouts anew, calling to the child at the window to run
from the apartment where she was, and seek safety by the
staircase. But she, poor trembler, was bewildered by terror;
for she had lain fainting, where she had fallen upon
the floor of the room, during several moments after her
escape from suffocation, until the rapid progress of the
fire had completely cut off all avenues of egress save the
solitary window. The flame, communicated by the charcoal
furnace to the flock bed, had burned up through a
low ceiling, and out along a thin panelled wall to the
passage-way, thence, augmented by the draught, devouring
the dry woodwork of the staircase, and emitting
volumes of thick smoke and lurid sparks, which were
hurled throughout the rest of the houses. The flooring
behind the window-sill to which Ninetta clung in despair,
was crisping under the heat, and had long since given
way, but that the fire, ascending in the closet, and there
confined by the closing of the door, had first worked its
path above, before spreading to the outer room.

In this state of things, there was no opportunity for the
child to obey the hoarse directions of the excited crowd

below. She could only wave her little arms, and raise
them beseechingly above her head, as she leaned further
out of the window, shrinking from the heat within, which
scorched her flesh, and from the smoke that grew close
and deadly. The spectators shuddered now, for they
could catch glimpses of forked gleams behind Ninetta's
white form; and, presently, they beheld the brave fireman,
who had entered the tenant-house, appear at a window
in the second story, and dash out the sash, gasping
for breath, while his voice, choked and harsh, scarcely
reached their ears. “The house within is a sheet of
flame!” he cried; and swinging himself out of the casement,
let himself down a dozen feet into the street.

Then, indeed, cries of terror from the men, and wailings
from the women, rose in dire discord from the multitude,
as their faces were turned upwards to the high
third-story window, where clung the beautiful child, at
the month of the fiery furnace, into which, it was too
probable, she must shortly fall backwards, or, springing
outward, be dashed upon the stony pavement. Then a
loud demand was made for bedding, to strew upon the
gutter, or hold above the people's heads, whereon the girl
might fall, and be saved from death, even with mutilation.
A score of men rushed outward, as this call was
heard, to procure, if possible, beds and mattresses; but
in the meantime, a new horror was added to the scene.

It has been said that a row of sheds, used for the
stabling of horses, diverged at an angle from the brick
tenant-house. The roofing of these dilapidated structures
had received, during several minutes, a shower of cinders,

thrown upward from the burning building, and at length
broke out into a blaze, which rapidly extended to the
rotten walls. The animals within, tethered to the stalls,
had become frantic with the glare around them, and now,
breaking their halters, were plunging madly to and fro,
uttering frightful shrieks. They dashed at the burning
doors, the frail fastenings of which at once gave way,
permitting the infuriated brutes to rush outward upon
the alley; and now, just at the instant when the shout
went up for beds, to break the child's fall, the people in
the cul-de-sac beheld a dozen steeds plunging upon them,
with dilated nostrils, and manes tossed aloft, their throats
venting horrible sounds like the roar of wild beasts in the
jungles. On came the terror-stricken animals, and the
multitude made way before them, thinking no longer of
the doomed child in the flames, as they cast themselves
out of the cul-de-sac, or crowded to the wooden buildings
at its sides, uttering, the while, the most fearful cries,
which mingled horribly with the din of the tramping
horses.

But all did not fly thus, or Ninetta's last moment had
surely come. Hardly had the exhausted fireman reached
once more the street, after his vain effort to penetrate to
the third story, than a dark figure sprang from a foremost
group in the alley, and gaining the base of the
tenant-house, clasped a metal conduit, which served for
the sewer connection of the building, and unto which was
joined, at the height of the second story, a spout of
weaker material, slightly fastened to the brickwork by
iron hooks. Clinging to this frail support, with both

hands, and bending his knees across it likewise, the man
began slowly to climb, while the spout shook and rattled
at every foot of his ascent. At this instant came the
alarm from the horse-sheds, and the rush which followed
it; and, save by a few who watched with straining eyes,
from a corner where they had retreated, the daring
climber was unnoticed by the crowd, till the scattering
animals had broken far away, and the multitude bore
back into the cul-de-sac. Then the dark figure was seen
close to the casing of the window, which one hand grasped
while the other lifted the child Ninetta from the floor
within, and supported her slight form in the air without.
At this sight, a shout arose that seemed like a prolonged
peal of thunder, and a hundred rude expressions
of admiration broke from the overwrought bosoms of the
multitude below. Then all was hushed, as the climber
was observed to wave his hand, and cast downward a
strand of rigger's yarn, which began slowly to unwind
from the ball within his palm, and descend towards the
pavement.

“A rope! a rope!—he wants a rope!” was passed
from mouth to mouth; and ere the string could reach
the ground, a heavy cord was hastily cut from an engine
in the narrow street, at the mouth of the alley, dragged
into the cul-de-sac, and affixed to the strand of yarn. In
a little space longer, which seemed an hour to the breathless
spectators, the rope was drawn upward, fastened
securely to the window-frame, and then, amidst the deafening
plaudits of the crowd, the intrepid climber lowered
himself to the pavement, and staggered with his insensible

burthen into the arms of the brothers Dobbs, who
rushed forward to support him. It was their guest, and
he had saved the life of Ninetta.

Slowly, and almost reverentially, the people fell back,
silently permitting the little one, whose white night-dress
was all scorched, and discolored with smoke, to be borne
from the cul-de-sac, and the alley into which it opened,
outward to the street, that was now densely packed with
men and women. Behind them crackled and roared the
increasing flames, on which now the engines began to hurl
their volumes of water; but the people forgot for a time
the raging element, as they pressed behind the human
being who had been rescued from the fiery abyss. Thus,
solemnly as it were, though with great shouts, the brothers
and their friend, assisted by the hedge-schoolmaster,
worked their way through the multitude, until the broader
pavement was gained, the misty rain descending all the
while upon Ninetta's upturned face, so still and white, like
marble. Arrived there, the little group were brought to
a pause; for a carriage, attempting to pass through the
street, had become jammed in the crowd, the horses attached
to it stamping and plunging, affrighted by the
lurid glare across their path. The door of this carriage
was open and an old man's face peered anxiously out—
the face of Mordecai Kolephat.

At this crisis, and as the people pressed around the
brothers and their friend, a new flash of the spreading
flames cast its awful radiance over the scene, illumining
the curious faces of the spectators, and disclosing, in all
her sweet loveliness, the form of Ninetta sustained by

Walter and Hubert, her head, with the face upward,
resting upon the arm of their guest. Mordecai Kolephat's
glance fell upon that childish face, which he had
last beheld that night so full of life and animation; as he
heard the shouts of the multitude, he saw that some
strange emotion pervaded them all; then, uttering a loud
cry, he sprang from the carriage, and in a moment had
clasped the insensible girl to his bosom. The people
swayed backward, as they beheld the old man clasp the
little one, and heard his lips murmur—“My child! my
child!” They heeded his imploring looks, as he raised
his head, and gazed upon Ninetta's features; and the
brothers who supported her, yielding to one whom they
supposed to be a relative, obeyed the Hebrew's low request
that she should be placed within the carriage. In
a moment more, Ninetta the dancing-girl reposed upon
the cushions, her head resting on the lap of Rebecca—
that wretched Rebecca who, at the bidding of her lover,
had meditated in the past hour a great crime, in order
that her uncle's lost child should come no more between
her love and fortune. Was it, indeed, retribution that
had now brought this little one to her arms, to hold close
to her breast, while the carriage pressed slowly through
the crowded street? Was it justice that had brought
this young face so near to her, lying white and beautiful
upon her lap—immobile, too, like death, beneath the
fiery glare that fell athwart them?

Slowly the carriage passed through the multitude; and
behind it walked the brothers Walter and Hubert, and
the hedge-schoolmaster, followed by their guest. The

latter spoke no word, though he had recovered from his
exertion; he replied not to the admiring shouts that
greeted him, as eager fingers pointed him out; he only
kept close to the coach, his eyes dwelling upon the
inmates, with a fixed regard—upon Mordecai Kolephat,
and Rebecca, and the fainting Ninetta.

Meantime, the fire raged fiercely; for the delay caused
by the difficulty of bringing the hooks or ladders near,
and the subsequent pause which ended in Ninetta's rescue,
had given it great headway; so that not only was the
brick tenant-house wrapped in a sheet of flame, but the
roofs of a dozen miserable buildings extending to the frail
walls of Kolephat College were likewise ignited, and shot
forth clouds of smoke, mixed with crackling sparks. The
firemen strove in vain to gain positions whence they could
command the conflagration. Wheresoever they sought to
penetrate or scale, they encountered the same obstacles,
of narrow alleys, steep stairs, intricate passages, and walls
of such slight material that it was a mockery of danger to
seek to surmount them. Thus, in spite of arduous labor
and exposure, on the part of the untiring men, the entire
block, including Kolephat College, was soon involved in
equal ruin. Kolephat College, indeed, was like a magazine,
wherein a spark falls to enkindle at once its combustible
stores, and hurl them all suddenly to nothingness;
for no sooner had the fiery element reached its dilapidated
eaves, its shattered walls, and inflammable partitions, than
a besom of destruction seemed to sweep from floor to
floor, driving the hapless fenants, young and old, sick or
suffering, or nigh unto death, to flee, as best they might,

along the wooden passages and down through cramped
stairways, until they reached the dismal outer air, and
were lost in the shouting crowd that stared upon their
desolate rooftrees.

Old Mallory—who had been the miserable miser, but
was now the proud protector of Fanny, whose sweet
voice chased away shadows from his pillow, and whose
smile made sunshine in every nook of his room—Old Mallory,
that afternoon, had celebrated his grand-daughter's
birthday, treating the children of Margaret's tenant-house
school to a little feast of cates and bonbons, to purchase
which he had expended a trifle of his hoarded
wealth. In Fanny's name had been regaled a dozen eager
urchins, who flocked to enjoy the unusual luxury; and in
Fanny's name, also, had been presented to the neglected
ones some article of clothing suited to the needs of each.
Fanny had been the queen of the festival, her clear eyes
brimming with joyous tears, her face radiant with love.
Thus the evening had drawn on; and when the school-children
went to their homes, Fanny, and Rob Morrison,
and Harry Winston, and poor Moll, the orphan child,
remained with Mallory, whilst Margaret and Emily Marvin
went out to visit, for a few hours, their friend and
benefactor, Mr. Granby—there to become participants,
not only in the quiet family devotions that made the
Samaritan's household so pleasant, but, alas! to mingle in
the scenes of suffering and sorrow which had followed so
abruptly on their first peaceful communion.

Meanwhile, Mallory and the children passed the hours
in innocent enjoyment. Fanny, with grave gentleness,

essayed to fill the place of Margaret Winston, marshalling
her young friends, and even the old man, as scholar in
her mimic school. Never had the grandfather before
experienced that tranquil happiness which springs from
doing good; yet, never before had he felt so deeply in his
withered bosom the terrific blankness of his past existence—the
desert desolation of the path which he had
traversed.

Thus was gathered together the little circle, absorbed
in buoyant pastime, when the rush and clash of people on
the staircases of Kolephat College, the cries of women
flying for their lives, and a sudden glare around the building,
startled the children from their sport, with the fearful
knowledge that the tenant-house was on fire. Mallory,
weak and paralytic, hobbled to the door, clasping the
child Fanny by her hand, whilst Bob the Weasel took
firm hold of Harry and the orphan Moll. Then, with
panic-stricken haste, they all hurried from the apartment,
to thread the dark passages and descend the steep stairways.

Many other tenants, roused from the various floors of
Kolephat College, had reached the passage which Mallory
and the children sought, and were crowding together at
the head of the staircase. Then, women and children,
half clothed, and many with naked feet, found themselves
at once, in the impervious darkness, jostling one another,
and trampled and kicked in their eager attempt to escape.
Cries of pain, oaths, and maledictions, and plaintive appeals
for pity, sounded throughout the undistinguishable
throng which struggled and fought for precedence in that

unlighted passage, and at the well-like mouth of the staircase,
whence descended, ladder-like, to the lower floors, a
declivity of rotten, dilapidated steps. “Oh! my child!”
cried Mallory, drawing Fanny nearer to him in the press,
“we shall be crushed to death! the poor people are mad
with fright.”

“Rob, dear Rob! where are you?” murmured Fanny,
in the darkness, as she clung to the old man's weak arm.

“Here I am, sister—me and Harry, and Moll,” cried
the brave Weasel, who had succeeded in creeping onward,
and was now jammed among those who were foremost on
the stairs. Rob's voice was faint, for his breath had been
nearly squeezed from his body, but he spoke hopefully,
and took a closer grip of Harry and Moll. Scarcely had
he spoken, however, when a new rush of other fugitives
from the upper stories took place, and the three children
were borne downward in the press, clinging tenaciously to
each other, and supported on their feet by the compactness
of the mass behind and before them. Mallory was
forced downward also, his weak limbs yielding instantly;
but at the moment when he felt himself lowered, as it
were, upon the crowd below, the little hand which clasped
his own became loosened, and a cry of pain from Fanny
told him that she was lost from his grasp.

“Oh! grandpa!” the child's almost stifled voice was
heard to murmur; and then, as if with a last effort, it
cried—“Rob! dear Rob!” But Rob was far below,
dragged helplessly in the desperate rush; and Mallory,
after a brief struggle to return to his grand-daughter,
was hurled likewise downward in the darkness, amid

shrieks, prayers, groans, and curses, that were horrible to
hear.

At length, however, the wretched tenants, fighting for
life and the lives of their poor children, succeeded in
reaching the lower floor, and emerged into the outer
glare, to behold the crowded street, and feel a misty rain
dashing in their faces, with reviving coolness. Some
were hurt severely, having been stamped upon and beaten
in the wild scramble for egress; some fainted outright,
on reaching the air; others sank down in gutters, conscious,
but without power to move farther.

Rob Morrison, in all the tumult and conflict, had never
released his hold of his companions, and this had saved
the three from being prostrated and trampled upon on the
stairs. The Weasel's new coat, the gift of Mr. Granby,
was rent from his shoulders, and the frocks of Harry and
Moll had been torn in tatters; but they were safe, and
ran, with eager faces, to meet old Mallory, who shortly
tottered forth, bruised and feeble. But where was little
Fanny?

Ay! where was Fanny? The child came not with the
last fugitives; her voice had not been heard since that
terrible moment when her hand was wrested from that of
her grandfather. Where, indeed, was Fanny?

Mallory clasped his shrivelled hands, and stood a moment,
in the lurid light of the sky, an image of desolate
fear. His features were ghastly, his hair hung disordered,
and he stared back, with glassy eyes, into the dark entry
of Kolephat College, as if he gazed, horror-stricken, into
an open grave. Then a light gleamed on his features, he

uttered a hollow groan—it might be a prayer—and tottered
back to the building, retracing his steps in the
darkness.

Rob Morrison, brave-hearted boy, hesitated a moment,
and half advanced to follow the old man; but Harry
Winston, frightened at the increasing flames, and fierce
din about them, clung fast to his hand, and the orphan
Moll had sunk exhausted on the curbstone. The Weasel
hurriedly supported both, leading them to the shelter of a
porch, at the mouth of the court, and then, bidding them
clasp each other's hands, and stir not a step till he should
return, ran swiftly back to the door of Kolephat College,
following Mallory's path to the dark staircase. But he
had not to ascend them; for Heaven, in its mercy, had
already saved his sweet Fanny from her deadly peril. A
strange man appeared emerging from the gloom, holding
the fair child in his arms; and the glad Weasel knew
that she was alive and without hurt, for her dove-like eyes
opened to greet him, and she murmured gently—“Rob—
dear Rob!” Mallory came behind, his form bowed and
weak, but his face radiant with joy. He clasped the boy's
hand in silence, and Rob led the way to the porch where
waited Harry and Moll. There the strange man deposited
his burthen, and turning his face to the glare of the sky,
disclosed the haggard features of the drunkard Keeley.

“Mallory! do you know me?” he cried, in a choked
voice.

“God pardon my sins!” cried the old man. “Is it
you, Keeley?”

“I robbed ye of your goold,” exclaimed the man;

“an' it's a heavy curse it's been to me! Will ye forgive
me, Mallory, for I've not long to live?”

“May God forgive my sins only as I freely forgive you,
Keeley!” answered the old man, solemnly. “Here is
your child, Keeley—and blessin's on your hand that
saved mine!”

The drunkard, now sober and sorrowing, clasped his
orphaned daughter to his breast; and then, unbuttoning
his ragged coat, drew out a white cloth containing some
heavy substance.

“I watched ye to-day, Mallory,” he said, “when ye
played with the children! Unbeknownst to ye, I saw ye
kiss poor Moll, here! An' when ye tried to run from the
house yonder, and your child was dragged away an'
almost smothered in the passage, I saved her from the
feet that was tramping her. Then, Mallory, I took her
back to your room—the room where I robbed ye—and
now—look there, Mallory!” He threw the cloth bundle
that he held at the old man's feet, and the metallie ring
which followed showed that it contained coin. “It's your
money, Mallory! I robbed ye when the liquor was in me,
but—I've saved your treasures, to-night, for the sake of
the kiss you gave poor motherless Moll!”