could hear her calling for Jimmy Mahoney, Jimmy Manoney! and would they be sure and give him back the handkerchief? Poor Jimmy Mahoney! By-and-by she called no more; and in a little while the hand was still. On the other side of the slanted flooring some one prayed aloud. She had a little baby at home. She was asking God to take care of it for her. "For Christ's sake," she said. Sene listened for the Amen, but it was never spoken. Beyond, they dug a man out from under a dead body, unhurt. He crawled to his feet, and broke into furious blasphemies.

Del cried presently, that they were cutting them out. The glare of the bonfires struck through an opening; saws and axes flashed; voices grew distinct.

"They never can get at me," said Sene. "I must be able to crawl. If you could get some of those bricks off of my feet, Del!"

Del took off two or three in a frightened way; then, seeing the blood on them, sat down and cried.

A Scotch girl, with one arm shattered, crept up and removed the pile, then fainted.

The opening broadened, brightened; the sweet nightwind blew in; the safe night-sky shone through. Sene's heart leaped within her. Out in the wind and under the sky she should stand again, after all! Back in the little bright kitchen, where the sun shone, and she could sing a song, there would yet be a place for her. She thought of her father, of Dick, of the supper-table set for three. Life-even her life-grew sweet, now that it was slipping from her. She worked her head from under the beam, and raised herself upon her elbow. At that moment she heard a cry :

"Fire! fire! GOD ALMIGHTY HELP THEM, THE RUINS ARE ON FIRE!"

A man working over the debris from the outside had taken the notion-it being rather dark just there—to carry a lantern with him.

"For God's sake", a voice cried from the crowd, "don't stay there with that light!"

But before the words had died upon the air, it was the dreadful fate of the man with the lantern to let it fall,—and it roke upon the ruined mass.

That was at nine o'clock. What there was to see from then till morning could never be told or forgotten.

A network twenty feet high, of rods and girders, of beams, pillars, stairways, gearing, roofing, ceiling, walling; wrecks of looms, shafts, twisters, pulleys, bobbins, mulés, locked and interwoven; wrecks of human creatures wedged in; a face that you know turned up at you from some pit which twentyfour hours' hewing could not open; a voice that you know crying after you from God knows where; a mass of long, fair hair visible here, a foot there, three fingers of a hand over there; the snow bright-red under foot; charred limbs and headless trunks tossed about; strong men carrying covered things by you, at sight of which other strong men have fainted; the little yellow jet that flared up, and died in smoke, and flared again, leaped out, licked the cotton-bales, tasted the oiled machinery, crunched the netted wood, danced on the heaped-up stone, threw its cruel arms high into the night, roared for joy at helpless firemen, and swallowed wreck, death, and life together out of your sight,—the lurid thing stands alone in the gallery of tragedy.

"Del," said Sene, presently, "I smell the smoke." And in a little while, "How red it is growing away over there at the left!"

To lie here and watch the hideous redness crawling after her, springing at her!-it had seemed greater than reason could bear, at first.

Now it did not trouble her. She grew a little faint, and her thoughts wandered. She put her head down upon her arm, and shut her eyes. Dreamily she heard them saying a dreadful thing outside, about one of the overseers; at the alarm of fire he had cut his throat, and before the flames touched him he was taken out. Dreamily she heard Del cry that the shaft behind the heap of reels was growing hot. Dreamily she saw a tiny puff of smoke struggle through the cracks of a broken fly-frame.

They were working to save her, with rigid, stern faces. A plank snapped, a rod yielded; they drew out the Scotch girl; her hair was singed; then a man with blood upon his face and wrists held down his arms.

"There's time for one more! God save the rest of ye,I can't!"

Del sprang; then stopped,-even Del,-stopped ashamed, and looked back at the cripple.

Asenath at this sat up erect. The latent heroism in her awoke. All her thoughts grew clear and bright. The tangled skein of her perplexed and troubled winter unwound suddenly. This, then, was the way. It was better so. God had provided himself a lamb for the burnt offering.

So she said, "Go, Del, and tell him I sent you with my dear love, and that it's all right."

And Del at the first word went.

Sene sat and watched them draw her out; it was a slow process; the loose sleeve of her factory sack was scorched.

Somebody at work outside turned suddenly and caught her. It was Dick. The love which he had fought so long broke free of barrier in that hour. He kissed her pink arm where the burnt sleeve fell off. He uttered a cry at the blood upon her face. She turned faint with the sense of safety; and, with a face as white as her own, he bore her away in his arms to the hospital, over the crimson snow.

Asenath looked out through the glare and smoke with parched lips. For a scratch upon the girl's smooth cheek, he had quite forgotten her. They had left her, tombed alive here in this furnace, and gone their happy way. Yet it gave her a curious sense of relief and triumph. If this were all that she could be to him, the thing which she had done was right, quite right. God must have known. She turned away, and shut her eyes again.

When she opened them, neither Dick, nor Del, nor crimsoned snow, nor sky, were there; only the smoke writhing up a pillar of blood-red flame.

The child who had called for her mother began to sob out that she was afraid to die alone.

66

Come here, Molly," said Sene. "Can you crawl around?" Molly crawled around.

"Put your head in my lap, and your arms about my waist, and I will put my hands in yours,-so. There! I guess that's better."

But they had not given them up yet. In the still unburnt rubbish at the right, some one had wrenched an opening within a foot of Sene's face. They clawed at the solid iron pintles like savage things. A fireman fainted in the glow.

"Give it up!” cried the crowd from behind. “It can't be done! Fall back!"—then hushed, awe-struck.

An old man was crawling along upon his hands and knees over the heated bricks. He was a very old man. His gray hair blew about in the wind.

"I want my little gal!" he said. where to find my little gal?”

"Can't anybody tell me

A rough-looking young fellow pointed in perfect silence through the smoke.

"I'll have her out yet. I'm an old man, but I can help. She's my little gal, ye see. Hand me that there dipper of water; it'll keep her from choking, may be. cheery, Sene! Your old father 'll get ye out. heart, child! That's it!"

Now! keep Keep up good

"It's no use, father. Don't feel bad, father. I don't mind it very much."

He hacked at the timber; he tried to laugh; he bewildered himself with cheerful words.

"No more ye needn't, Senath, for it'll be over in a minute. Don't be downcast yet! We'll have ye safe at home before ye know it. Drink a little more water,-do now! They'll get at ye now, sure!"

But above the crackle and roar a woman's voice rang out like a bell:

"We're going home, to die no more."

A child's notes quavered in the chorus. From sealed and unseen graves, white young lips swelled the glad refrain,— "We're going, going home."

The crawling smoke turned yellow, turned red. Voice after voice broke and hushed utterly. One only sang on like silver. It flung defiance down at death. It chimed into the lurid sky without a tremor. For One stood beside her in the furnace, and His form was like unto the form of the Son of God. Their eyes met. Why should not Asenath sing?

"Senath!" cried the old man out upon the burning bricks; he was scorched now, from his gray hair to his patched boots. The answer came triumphantly,

"To die no more, no more, no more!"

"Sene! little Sene!"

But some one pulled him back.

THE CAT EATER.

A HORRIBLE STORY FOR THE BENEFIT OF STRETCHERS.

Tim Weeks, who was a man précise,
And of his fame most wondrous nice,
Was, one fine morning, sitting down
Close to the docks of our old town,
Just to enjoy the salt sea air
That very often bloweth there;
And, as he pondered, two rude sirs,
Smoking their nasty, strong cigars,
Up to him came, and, with a stare,
Cried, "Timothy, we're glad to meet you,
Give us your hand; we joy to greet you!"
"I'm glad to see you, Mr. Brown,"
Said Timothy.

"Right glad to see you well, am I,"

Said Brown--"I thought you dead and done for,
And wondered what you were begun for,

To throw your precious life away

In such a fray."

"Dead! you're mad," said Tim, "Why dead?
You cannot be quite right i' the head."
"I'm right enough," Brown smiling said,
"But you, I wonder how you are;

Some have fallen sick on milder fare.
Old Jones declares, who saw the sight,

You ate up three live cats last night!"

Ate three live cats! Did Jones say that?"

"He did; and called you a great flat."

66

The rogue! the liar!" said Tim,-" I'll go And punch his nose and blood shall flow To wash the stain! the slanderous stain Stamped in my heart, and in my brain!"

So off he goes, and meets with Jones, "I'll knock your nose, and pound your bones! How dare you say, you lying wight, That I ate three live cats last night!" "I did not say," quoth Jones, "that you Ate three, I only spoke of two!"

"Two! in the name of truth, and who Dared to say that? It is a spanker!"

Well, it comes retail from Bob Danker."

"I'll Danker him," so off goes Weeks,
The blood high mounting in his cheeks.
He meets Bob in the market place-
"Vile caitiff! come! we're face to face,

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