s
suffocating, and the burning brands were falling from the blazing roof.
Up the second flight of stairs he flew blinded, choked, singed. He knew
Eeny's room; the door was unlocked, and he rushed in. The smoke or fire
had not penetrated here yet, and on the bed the girl lay fast asleep,
undisturbed by all the uproar around her.

To muffle her from head to foot in a blanket, snatch her up and fly out
of the room, was but the work of a few seconds. The rushing smoke
blinded and suffocated him, but he darted down the staircases as if his
feet were winged. Huge cinders and burning flakes were falling in a
fiery shower around him, but still he rushed blindly on. The lower hall
was gained, a breeze of the blessed cold air blew on his face.

They were seen, they were saved, and a wild cheer arose from the
breathless multitude. Just at that instant, with his foot on the
threshold, an avalanche of fire seemed to fall on his head from the
burning roof.

Another cry, this time a cry of wild horror arose from the crowd; he
reeled, staggered like a drunken man; some one caught Eeny out of his
arms as he fell to the ground.

CHAPTER XXII.

AFTER THE CROSS, THE CROWN.

The glare of a brilliant April sunset shone in the rainbow-hued western
sky, and on the fresh, green earth, all arrayed in the budding promise
of spring.

Grace Danton stood by the window of a long, low room, looking
thoughtfully out at the orange and crimson dyes of the far-off sky.

The room in which she stood was not at all like the vast old-fashioned
rooms of Danton Hall. It was long and narrow, and low-ceilinged, and
very plainly furnished. There was the bed in the centre, a low,
curtainless bed, and on it, pale, thin, and shadowy, lay Grace's
brother, as he had lain for many weary weeks. He was asleep now, deeply,
heavily, tossing no longer in the wild delirium of brain-fever, as he
had tossed for so many interminable days and nights.

Grace dropped the curtain, and went back to her post by the bedside. As
she did so, the door softly opened, and Kate, in a dark, unrustling
dress and slippers of silence, came in. She had changed in those weeks;
she looked paler and thinner, and the violet eyes had a more tender
light, a sadder beauty than of old.

"Still asleep," she said, softly, looking at the bed. "Grace, I think
your prayers have been heard."

"I trust so, dear. Is your father in?"

"No; he has ridden over to see how the builders get on.