University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
THE OLD HOME IN DANGER.—GREGORY RETRIEVES
HIMSELF.

GREGORY made desperate efforts to keep up at
the supper table, but could not prevent slight
evidences of physical pain, which Annie silently noticed.
After tea he hoped to escape to his room,
for he could not endure to show even his physical
weakness so soon again. On the contrary, he was
longing intensely for an opportunity to manifest a
little strength of some kind. After his recent interview
he felt that he could even bear one of his nervous
headaches alone. But as he was about to excuse
himself, Annie interrupted, saying:

“Now, Mr. Gregory, that is not according to
agreement. Do you suppose I cannot see that you
are half beside yourself with one of your old headaches?
Was I such a poor physician the last time,
that you seek to escape me now? Come back to
the parlor. I will not go out to church this evening,
but devote myself to you.”

“Miss Walton,” he replied in a low tone, “when
can I make any return for all your kindness? I
must seem weakness itself in every respect, and I
dread to appear to you always in that light.”

“Your pride needs bringing down, sir; see how
towering it is. Here you would go off by yourself,
and endure a useless martyrdom all night perhaps,
when, by bathing your head and a few simple remedies,
I can relieve you, or at least help you forget
the pain. I have not the slightest objection to your
being a martyr, but I want some good to come out
of it.”

“But I will spoil your evening.”

“Certainly you will, if I think of you groaning
up there by yourself, while I am singing, perhaps,

“Then I'm a cumbering care!”

“Whether you are or not, I'm not going to steal
away from you to-night. Good people treat their
duties too often in that style. Come, do as I bid
you.”

He was only too glad to submit to her delicious
tyranny. She wheeled the lounge up to the fire and
placed her chair beside it, while the rest of the family,
seeing that he had his old malady, went to the
sitting-room.

“I have great pride in my nursing powers,” she
continued in her cheery way. “Now, if I were a
man, I'd certainly be a doctor.”

“Thank heaven you are not,” he said, with a
devout earnestness that quite startled her.

“What? A doctor?” she asked quickly.

“Yes, no; I mean a man, and doctor too.”

“I see no reason why you should show such bitter
opposition to my being a man or doctor either. Why
should you?”

“Oh—well—I think you are just right as a
woman. You make me believe in the doctrine of
election, for it seems to me that you were destined
from all eternity to be just what you are.”

“What a strange, unfathomable doctrine that
is!” said Annie softly and musingly.

“It's nothing but mystery all around us,” he
replied wearily and dejectedly.

“No, not `all around us,'” she answered quickly.
“It's clear when we look up. Faith builds a safe
bridge to God, and he sees no mysteries.”

Then sweetly and naturally she let her playful
talk glide upon sacred themes, and while by her
gentle touch she charmed away pain, she also applied
the healing balm of truth to his now receptive
mind.

If she did not teach him to love God that evening,
she certainly, though in complete unconsciousness,
did confirm his love for her. With intense
gratitude, as for one who had rescued him from a fate
infinitely worse than death, he felt that he could kiss
the very hem of her garment. Her touch thrilled
him, and her presence was both exhilarating and
restful.

At last she said, “I am sorry you have these
dreadful headaches so often.”

“I will never be again.”

“Why so?”

“Because they have led to this evening. It has
been so many long, miserable years since I experienced
anything like this.”

“Ah, I see, you have been very lonely. You
have had no one to care for you, and that I believe
has been the cause of half your trouble—evil, I
mean. Indeed, they are about the same thing. Don't
you see? The world is too large a place for a home.
You need a nook in it, with some one there to look
after you, and for you to think about.”

He looked at her searchingly, and then turned
away his face in pain. She could not utter such
words in that placid style, were she not utterly
devoid of the feeling that was filling his soul with an
ecstasy of hope and fear.

“Do not think that even many of our sex are
like Miss Bently. You will see and choose more
wisely hereafter, and find that, in exchanging that
wretched club-life for a cosey home of your own, you
take a good step in all respects.”

“Would to heaven that I had met such a girl as
you at first,” he ventured to say. “How different
then all might have been!”

“There is no use of dwelling on the past,” she
replied innocently. “You are now pledged to make
the future right.”

“God helping me, I will. I will use every means
in my power,” he said in a tone of deep earnestness;
and as principal part of the means, determined to
take her advice, but with reference to herself. After
a few moments he said:

“Miss Walton, as I promised to be perfectly
frank with you, I want to ask an explanation of something
that I do not understand, and which has been
almost a heavenly surprise to me. I was almost
certain before this afternoon that when you came to
know what a stained, evil man I am—”

“Were,” interrupted Annie.

“No, what a wicked man I am. Character is
not made in a moment. As yet, I only hope and
purpose to do better. I can hardly understand why
you do not shrink from me in disgust. It seemed
that both your faith and your nature would lead you
to do this. I thought it possible that out of your
kindness you might try to stand at a safe distance
and give me some good advice across the gulf. But
that which I feared would drive you from me forever,
has only brought you nearer. Again I say, it has
been a heavenly surprise.”

“You use the word `heavenly' with more appropriateness
than you think,” she replied gravely.
“All such surprises are heavenly in their origin, and
my course is but a faint reflection of Heaven's disposition
toward you, and was prompted by the duty I
owe to God as well as to you. Human or self-righteousness
would have led me in Pharisaic pride to
say, `Stand aside, I am holier than thou.' But you
have only to read the life of the perfect One, Christ
Jesus, to know that in so doing I would not have
been like him. He laid his rescuing hands on both
the physical and moral leper—”

“As you have upon me,” said Gregory, with a

look of such intense gratitude that she was embarrassed.

“I deserve no great credit, for it was only right
that I should do the utmost in my power to help
you. How else could I be a Christian—a Christ-like
person—in any real sense? To save was the
mission and passion of his life. But there's nothing
strange about it. Christianity is not like
false religions, that require unnatural and useless
sacrifices. If I were a true physician, and found you
suffering from a terrible and contagious disease,
while I feared and loathed the disease, I might have
the deepest sympathy for you and do my best to
cure you. I do loathe the sin you confessed, inexpressibly.
See how near it came to destroying you.
While God hates the sin, he ever loves the sinner.”

“I hope you will always be divine in that respect,”
he could not forbear saying with rising color.

But Annie's thoughts were so intent on what
was uppermost in her heart that she did not notice
his covert meaning, and said innocently:

“I will give you honest friendship as long as you
honestly try to redeem the pledges of to-day.”

“Then I have your friendship for life, be it long
or short,” said he decisively.

With more lightness in her tone she said, “And
I too will ask a question that has a bearing on a
little theory of my own. Supposing I had shrunk
from you, and tried to give some good religious
advice from a safe distance, what would you have
done?”

“Left for New York to-morrow, and gone as
straight to the devil as one of his own imps,”
he replied without a moment's hesitation.

She sighed deeply, and said, “I fear you would—
that is, left yourself. And the worst of it is, it seems
to me that this is the way the church is trying to
save the world. Suppose a doctor should address
his patients through a speaking-trumpet and hand
them his remedies on the end of a very long rod.
Death would laugh at his efforts. People can be
saved only as Christ saved them. We must go
where they are, lay our hands upon them, and look
sympathy and hope right into their eyes. If
Christ's followers would only do this, how many
more might be rescued who now seem hopelessly
given over to evil.”

“Those who won't do it,” said Gregory bitterly,
“are in no sense his true followers, but are merely
the `hangers on' of his army, seeking to get out of
it all they can for self. Every general knows that
the `camp-followers' are the bane of an army.”

“Come, Mr. Gregory,” said she gently, “we are
not the general, and therefore not the judge. After
this I shall expect to see you in the regular ranks,
ready to give and take blows.”

Mr. Walton and Miss Eulie now returned from
church, and Gregory professed to feel, and indeed
was, much better, and after a little music they separated
for the night.

Though still suffering, Gregory sat by his fire a
long time, forgetful of pain. In his experience he

illustrated how Paul could sing at midnight in the
inner prison, though scourged and bleeding.

High, blustering winds prevailed all the following
day, but they only made the quiet and cosiness of
Mr. Walton's fireside more delightful. Gregory did
not care to go out if he went alone. He wished to
be where he could see Annie as often as possible, for
every word and smile from her in the intervals of
her duties was precious. As his mind had been
awakened to better things, Annie and religion were
inseparable. He did honestly mean to become a
good man if it were possible, but he saw in her the
only hopeful means. He did not pretend to either
faith or love to God as yet, but only felt a glow of
gratitude, a warming of his heart toward Him in
view of His great mercy in sending to his aid such a
gentle ministering spirit as Annie had proved. He
took it as an omen that God meant kindly by him,
and through this human hand might save at last.

And he clung to this hand as the drowning do to
anything that keeps them from sinking into dark
and unknown depths. He saw in Annie Walton
earthly happiness certainly, and his best prospect of
heaven. What wonder then that his heart lay at
her feet in entire consecration. Apart from the
peculiar fascination that Annie herself had for him,
he had motives for loving her that actuate but few.
If she had saved him from physical death it would
have been a little thing in comparison, but he shuddered
to think of the precipice from which she had
drawn him back. Through her he might escape

eternal degradation, and he already lavished upon
her a love akin to that which the redeemed will at
last lay at the feet of Him who for their sakes
became a “Man of sorrows.” Gregory did not know
Him yet.

But he was cautious in revealing himself to
Annie. The presence of others was a restraint, and
he plainly saw that she had no such regard for him
as he felt for her. But he hoped with intense fervor
—yes, he even prayed to that God whom he had so
long slighted—that in time she might return his
love.

But to-day he would close his eyes on the past
and future. She, the sunshine of his soul, was near,
and he was content to bask in her smiles.

Annie had given her father and aunt to understand
that their conspiracy promised to result in
success, and they treated him with marked but delicate
kindness. The day passed in music, reading,
and cheerful conversation, and to Gregory it was
the happiest he ever remembered—one of those
sweet May days that, by some happy blunder of
nature seemingly, occasionally blesses us in March—
and he made the very most of it. Its close found
Annie Walton enthroned in his heart. He worshipped
at a human shrine, and forgot the solemn words,
“Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”

As for Annie, he perplexed her a little, but she
explained everything peculiar in his words and manner
on the ground of his gratitude only, and the glow
of his newly-awakened moral nature. If she had

been an experienced belle, with the vanity usually
possessed by those pretty pain-givers, she might have
understood his symptoms better, but she was one of
the last in the world to imagine people falling in
love with her. Never having received much admiration
from strangers, with no long list of victims,
and believing from her own experience that love
was a gradual growth resulting from long knowledge
and intimacy with its object, she could not dream
that this critical man of the world, who had seen the
beauties of two continents, would in a few days be
carried away with her plain face. Nor was he by
her face, but by herself.

Men of mind rarely are captivated by a face
merely, however beautiful, but what it represents, or
what they imagine it does. Woe be to the beauty
who has no better capital than her face. With it she
can allure some one into marrying her; but if he
married for an intelligent companion, he is like
to prove the most disappointed and indifferent
of husbands on discovering the fraud. The world
will never get over its old belief that the fair face is
the index of graces slightly vailed, and ready to be
revealed when the right to know is gained. In
nursery rhymes, in fairy tales, and the average novel,
the beautiful heroine is also lovely, and so in spite
of adverse experience the world will ever expect wisdom
and truth from red lips, till they say too much
—till the red lips themselves prove the contrary.
Then come the anger and disgust which men ever
visit upon those who deceive and disappoint them.

Beauty is a dainty and exquisite vestibule to a
temple; but when a worshipper is beguiled into
entering only to find a stony, misshapen idol and a
dingy shrine, this does not conduce to future devotion.

Annie's face would not arrest passers-by, and so
she had not been spoiled by too much homage, which
is not good for man or woman. But after passing
the plain, simple portico of externals into the inner
temple of her sweet and truthful life, the heart once
hers would worship with undying faith and love.

Gregory had come to interest her deeply, not
only on the ground of his need, but because she
saw in him great capabilities for good! In all his
evil, his downright honesty and lack of conceit inspired
a kind of respect. She also saw that this
excessively fastidious man had learned to admire
and esteem her greatly. It was not in her woman's
nature to be indifferent to this fact. She felt that if
he could be redeemed from his evil he might become
a congenial and valuable friend indeed, and if she
could be the means of rescuing the son of her father's
friend, it would ever be one of her happiest
memories. But with her heart already occupied
with a noble ideal of Hunting, the possibility of
anything more than friendship never entered her
mind. The very fact that her affections were so engaged
made her blind to manifestations on the part
of Gregory, which might otherwise have awakened
suspicion. Still the confidential relations growing
up between them made her wish that she might

reveal to him her engagement to Hunting; and she
would have done so, did he not resent the slightest
allusion in that direction. It now seemed probable
that Hunting would return before Gregory took
his departure, and if so, she felt that she could immediately
reconcile them. She came to the conclusion
that her best course was to wait till she
could bring them together, and so make the thing
certain by her own presence and influence; for now,
in her increasing regard for Gregory, she was determined
that they all should be on good terms, so
that in the city home to which she looked forward,
the man she was trying to lead to true life might be
a frequent and welcome visitor.

But it is a difficult thing to keep such friendships
Platonic in their nature under any circumstances,
and in view of Gregory's feelings, Annie's
pretty dreams of the future would be but baseless
dreams.

Monday evening was one of those genial domestic
experiences that make home more satisfying in its
pleasures than all the excitements of the world.
Mr. Walton had a slight cold, and Annie was nursing
and petting him, while contributing to the general
enjoyment, by reading the daily paper, and singing
some new ballads which she had just obtained from
New York. Her father's indisposition was so slight
that it merely occasioned those little attentions
which are pleasant for affection to bestow and receive.
The wind howled dismally without, only to enhance
the sense of peace and comfort within, and at

the usual hour all retired to the deeper peace and
rest of sleep, without even the passing thought that
anything might disturb them before they met again
at the cheerful breakfast-table.

In a world like ours there is but one place where
continued peace and the absolute assurance of safety
can be maintained—the depths of a soul stayed on
Christ.

Some time during the night Gregory seemed to
hear three distinct peals of thunder, wrathful and
threatening, and then a voice like that of Annie
Walton calling him to escape a great danger. But
it seemed that he was paralyzed, and strove in
vain to move hand or foot. Again and louder
pealed the thunder, and more urgent came the call
of the warning voice. By a desperate effort he
sprang with a bound upon the floor, and then realized
that what seemed thunder in the exaggeration
of his dream was loud knocking at his door. Annie's
voice again called:

“Mr. Gregory, awake, dress—there is a fire.
There may be danger.”

He assured her that he would be out in a few
moments, and had only to open a shutter to obtain
plenty of light, though he could not see from whence
it came. In five minutes he hastened down stairs
and found Mr. Walton just issuing from his room;
and all went out on the front piazza. Gregory then
saw that a large factory some distance up the stream
was burning, and that the fire was under such headway
that nothing could save the building. The

wind had increased during the night and fanned the
flames into terrific fury. The building was old and
dry, inviting destruction in every part.

For a while they gazed with that fearful awe
which this terrible element, no longer servant, but
master, always inspires. Susie had not been well
during the night, and in waiting on her, Annie had
discovered the disaster.

A warning cough from Mr. Walton revealed to
Annie the danger of staying out in the raw winds;
but from the hall windows everything was apparent,
and silently they watched the rapid progress of the
flames. The fire had caught in the lower part of the
building, and was advancing up from floor to floor
with its horrid illumination at the windows.

“Do you think I can do any good by going
there?” asked Gregory.

“Not at all,” said Mr. Walton. “The whole of
the New-York Fire Department could not save it
now; and from the sounds I hear, there will soon be
throngs of people there. Indeed, I am anxious about
my own place. When that shingle roof commences
to burn there is no telling how far the wind will
carry the cinders.”

Annie looked at her father in quick alarm, then
drew Miss Eulie aside, and they immediately went
up stairs.

With a more painful interest, Gregory now
watched the scene. The tall ladders which had first
been raised against the building were withdrawn.
They were useless, for the whole interior seemed

ablaze. Great tongues of fire began leaping from the
windows, mocking every effort. The rapid steps of
those hastening to the scene resounded along the
road, and the startling cry of “Fire! Fire!” was
heard up and down the valley till they all merged
in the shouts and cries around the burning building.
Mingling with the deeper, hoarser tones of men were
the shrill voices of women, showing that they too had
been drawn to witness a destruction that meant to
them loss of bread. The foliage near was bloody red
in the dreadful glare, and the neighboring pines
tossed their tasselled boughs like dark plumes at a
torchlight funeral. With a sudden roar a pyramid of
flame shot up through the roof, and was echoed by a
despairing cry from those whose vocation now indeed
was gone. A moment later a fiery storm of flakes
and burning shingles filled the sky.

To their great joy the wind was from such a
quarter as to carry this destructive tempest past
them into the woodland back of the house, which
happily had been rendered damp by recent rains.

But a cinder frequently sailed by unpleasantly
near, reminding one of scattering shots in a battle.
A slight change of wind would be their destruction,
and a single stray firebrand would endanger them.

Just as they began to breathe somewhat freely,
hoping that danger was about past, a sudden sideeddy
of the gale scattered a shower of sparks and
burning shingles over the house and out-buildings.
Mr. Walton immediately rushed forth, and, with a
little whistle he usually carried, gave a shrill summons

for Jeff, who lived in a cottage near. But Jeff
was off to the fire, and so did not appear. Walter
and Annie also hastened out, and all ran to the barn
and out-buildings first, as from their nature they
were most inflammable. To their joy, no traces of
fire were seen. One or two smoking brands lay in
the door-yard, where they could cause no injury.
But a cry of alarm from Annie, who had stayed
nearer the house, brought Mr. Walton and Gregory
to her side instantly. Pointing to the roof of their
house, she said, in tones of strong excitement:

“See there—oh, see there!”

A burning piece of wood had caught on the
highest part near the ridge, and was smoking and
smouldering in a way that, with the strong wind
fanning it, would surely cause destruction if not dislodged.

“Oh, what shall we do?” she cried, wringing her
hands. “Can a ladder reach it?”

“The roof is too steep, even if it did,” said Mr.
Walton.

“Where is the ladder?” cried Gregory.

“By the carriage-house. But I fear it is useless.”

“Will you help me bring it, sir?”

They instantly brought the longest ladder on
the place, but saw that though it might touch the
eaves, it would not reach the ridge. The roof was
so steep that one could not keep footing on it; and
when they took time to look and consider, both
gentlemen admitted that the effort in that direction
would fail, and probably at the cost of life.

“Is there no scuttle by which to get out on the
roof?” asked Gregory.

“No. Quick, Annie, get out what you can, for
we shall soon be homeless.”

“Wait,” said Gregory. “Is there no way to
reach the roof?”

“None that we can use. A light and daring
climber might possibly reach the ridge by the lightning-rod,
after leaving the ladder.”

“Where is it?” cried Gregory, eager to do something
to make impossible even the thought that he
was cowardly; for the memory of his course in the
counterfeiter's den rankled deeply.

“No,” cried both Mr. Walton and Annie, laying
their hands on him. “Your life is worth more than
the house.”

“My life is my own,” he answered. “I will
make an effort to save the dear old place. Quick,
help me. Here, girls (to Zibbie and Hannah, who
now stood beside them in dismay), take hold of that
end of the ladder, and carry it out there. Now push
it up while I hold its foot. There, that's it—I will
do it. You cannot hinder, but only help. Miss
Walton, get me a rope. Haste, while I prepare to
climb.”

With the help of the stout women, whose strength
was doubled by their fears and excitement, he placed
the ladder against the lightning-rod and siding of
the house just under the ridge. His tones were
determined and authoritative.

He was now acting as Annie would if she were a

man, and she admired and respected him as never
before. In two or three moments she and her father
returned with a line, but again expostulated.

“Mr. Gregory, the risk is too great.”

“You can't prevent it,” said he firmly. “I absolve
you from all responsibility. I take the risk in
spite of you. Haste—see how it's burning. There,
that will do. Stand back.”

Even as he spoke he was climbing.

“Now that's generous,” said Annie; “but if you
are injured, I will never forgive myself.”

He turned, and for a second smiled down upon
her.

The strength of his new-born love made him
glad to endanger even life in her service, and the
thought “I can at last win a little respect, as well
as sympathy” nerved him to double his ordinary
powers. Like most country boys he had been a
bold, active climber, and his knowledge and former
skill made his present attempt possible. The main
question was whether in his feeble state his strength
would hold out. But the strong excitement for the
moment would serve him in place of muscle. He
had thrown off his coat and boots, and, with a small
rope fastened about his waist, he swiftly ascended
to the top of the ladder. But there were three or
four feet that he must overhand up the lightning-rod
in order to reach the ridge. It was a large,
twisted affair, and gave him a good hold, but he
had to take the risk of its being strong enough in its
fastening to sustain his weight. Fortunately it was,

and he unhesitatingly commenced the perilous effort.
He made good progress till he was within a foot
of the ridge. Then his strength began to fail, and
plainly to those below he wavered.

With white face, clasped hands, and lips moving
in prayer, Annie watched him. Her heart almost
stood still with dread; and when toward the last he
slowly and still more slowly overhanded upward,
plainly indicating that his strength was ebbing, she
cried, in an agony of fear:

“Come back, oh, come back. What is all here
to your life?”

A second before it seemed to him that he must
fail, that he might suddenly fall at her feet a crushed
and lifeless mass, but her voice revived him, and the
passionate thought came with inspiring power, “I
can do more to win her love now than by years of
effort;” and he made a desperate struggle, gained
the ridge, and crawled out upon it, panting for a
moment, and powerless to do more than cling for
support.

The burning cinder was now but little in advance
of him, and he saw that there was not a second to
lose. It had charred and blackened the roof where
it caught, and fanned by the wind, was a live, glowing
coal. The shingles under it were smoking—
yes, smouldering. Were it not for their dampness
and mossy age, they would have been blazing. In a
few moments nothing could save the house.

As soon as he got his breath, he crept along the
ridge within reach of the fiery flake. There seemed

no place where he could lay hold of it without burning
himself. It would not do to simply detach it, as
it might catch farther down the steep roof where it
could not be reached. Chief of all, there was not a
moment to spare. He did not hesitate, but with
sufficient presence of mind to use his left instead of
his right hand, he seized the fatal brand and hurled
it, a fiery meteor, clear of the house. It hurt him
cruelly, and for a moment he felt sick and faint; but
a round of applause from those below (for now Miss
Eulie, the children also, were out, looking tremblingly
on), and Annie's cry of joy and encouragement, again
gave him strength.

But as he looked closely at the spot where the
cinder lay, his fears were realized. It had ignited
the roof. A little water would extinguish it now,
but in a few moments, under the wild wind that was
blowing, all would be ablaze.

He crawled to the end of the ridge and shouted:

“Tie a light pail of water to the cord—not much
at a time, or I can't draw it up.”

Annie darted to the house for a lighter pail than
Hannah had brought, and to Gregory's joy he found
that he had strength to lift it, though with his burned
hand it was agony to do so. But with the now
good prospect of finishing his work successfully, his
spirits rose. He grew more familiar and confident
in his dangerous position. He did not look down
from his giddy height, and permitted himself to
think of nothing but Annie. Indeed, in his strong
excitement, he felt that it would not be a bitter

thing to die thus serving her; and, in his false philosophy,
hoped this brave act might atone for the
wrong of the past.

It is the nature of noble, generous deeds to exalt a
man's soul so that he can fearlessly face death; when
in calm moments, or times of sinful weakness, he
would shrink back appalled. In the excitement of the
hour, and under the inspiration of his strong human
love, Gregory was not afraid to die, though life
seemed, with its new possibilities, sweeter than even
before. He knew that his strength was failing fast
—that reaction would soon set in, and that he would
be helpless, and his great hope was that he could
save the house first.

He determined therefore not to waste a drop of
water, and make this one pail answer if possible. He
therefore poured it slowly out, and let it run over
the burning part. The continued hissing and smoke
proved that the fire had penetrated deeper than he
thought. The last drop was gone, and still the place
smoked. A little more was absolutely necessary.

“Will my strength hold out?” he asked himself
in almost an agony of doubt.”

Crawling back to the end of the ridge, he again
lowered the pail.

“Fill it again,” he cried.

“Can you stand it?” cried Mr. Walton.

“I must, or all is useless,” was his answer.

Again, but more slowly and painfully, he pulled
the water up.

Annie wrung her hands in anguish as she saw in

the red glare of the still burning factory how pale
and exhausted he was.

But he once more managed to reach the point
above the still smouldering spot, and caused the
water to trickle down upon it. By the time he had
half emptied the pail the smoke ceased.

After a moment it again faintly exuded, but
another little stream of water quenched the fire
utterly. But for five minutes he watched the place
to make sure that there was not a lingering spark,
and then let the rest of the water flow over the
place to saturate it completely.

He was now certain that the house was saved.
But he was satisfied from his sensations that he had
but brief time in which to save himself. Reaction
was fast setting in.

He untied the rope from his waist, and let pail
and all roll clattering down the roof. This noise
was echoed by a cry of alarm from those below, who
feared for a moment that he was falling. They all
had the sickening dread which is felt when we look
at one in great peril, and yet can do nothing to
help.

At first Gregory thought that he would lay down
upon and cling to the ridge, thus gaining strength
by a little rest. But he soon found this would not
answer. His overtaxed frame was becoming nerveless,
and his only hope was to escape at once, if he
ever did. In trembling weakness he crawled back
to the edge, and looked over. Annie stepped forward

to the foot of the ladder and extended her
hands as if to catch him.

“Stand back,” he cried; “if I fall, I will kill
you.”

“I will not stand back,” she answered. “You
shall not take all the risk.”

But her father, who still kept his presence of
mind in the terrible excitement of the moment,
forced her away, and saved her from the danger of
this useless sacrifice. As soon as she could do nothing,
her fortitude vanished, and she covered her
face with her hands and wept bitterly.

The chief point of difficulty in Gregory's weak
state was to get off the ridge upon the lightning-rod
without losing his hold and falling at once. If
he could turn the edge and commence descending in
safety, his strength might hold out till he reached
the ladder and so the ground. But he realized the
moment of supreme peril, and hesitated.

Then, with something like a prayer to God and a
wistful look at Annie, he resolutely swung himself
over. His hands held the weight of his body, and
he commenced the descent. Annie's glad cry once
more encouraged him. He gained the ladder and
descended till not far from the ground.

Suddenly everything turned black before his eyes,
and he fell.