Harold Gwynne's.
At first, she thought she must still be dreaming some horrible dream;
but consciousness came quick, as it often does at such a time. Before
the next outcry was raised she had guessed its meaning. Upon her had
come that most awful waking--the waking in a house on fire.

There are some women who in moments of danger gain an almost miraculous
composure and presence of mind. Olive was one of these. Calmly she
answered Harold's half-frenzied call to her from without her door.

"I am awake and safe; the fire is not in my room. Tell me, what must I
do?"

"Dress quickly--there is time. Think of all you can save, and come," she
heard Harold reply. His passionate cry of "Olive!" had ceased; he was
now as self-possessed as she.

Her room was light as day, with the reflection of the flames that
were consuming the other end of the long straggling house. She dressed
herself, her hands never trembling--her thoughts quick, vivid, and
painfully minute. There came into her mind everything she would
lose--her household mementos--the unfinished picture--her well-beloved
books. She saw herself penniless--homeless--escaping only with life.
But that life she owed to Harold Gwynne. How everything had chanced she
never paused to consider. There was a sweetness, even a wild gladness,
in the thought of peril from which Harold had come to save her.

She heard his voice eager with anxiety. "Miss Rothesay! hasten. The fire
is gaining on us fast!" And added to his was the cry of her faithful old
servant, Hannah, whom he had rescued too. He seemed to stand firm amidst
the confusion and terror, ruling every one with the very sound of his
voice--that knew no fear, except when it trembled with Olive's name.

"Quick--quick! I cannot rest till I have you safe. Olive! for God's
sake, come! Bring with you anything you value, only come!"

She had but two chief treasures, always kept near her--her mother's
portrait, and Harold's letters; the letters she hid in her bosom, the
picture she carried in her arms. Thus laden, she quitted the burning
house.

It was an awful scene. The utter loneliness of the place precluded any
hope of battling with the fire; but, the night being still and windless,
it advanced slowly. Sometimes, mockingly, it almost seemed to die away,
and then rose up again in a hurricane of flame.

[Illustration: Page 401, Olive and Harold]

Olive and Harold stood on the lawn, she clinging to his hand like a
child. "Is