time approached Wingfield's
residence.

The honest farmer, who, with his wife and two of his men, was standing
in a field at the top of the hill, gazing at the conflagration, hearing
the noise occasioned by the carts, ran to the road-side to see what was
coming, and encountered Mr. Bloundel and Leonard, who had walked up the
ascent a little more quickly than the others.

"I have been thinking of you," he said, after a cordial greeting had
passed between them, "and wondering what would become of you in this
dreadful fire. Nay, I had just told my dame I should go and look after
you, and see whether I could be of any service to you. Well, I should be
better pleased to see you in any way but this, though you could not be
welcomer. I have room in the barn and outhouses for all you have
brought, and hope and trust you have not lost much."

"I have lost nothing except the old house," replied the grocer, heaving
a sigh.

"Another will soon be built," rejoined Wingfield, "and till that is done
you shall not quit mine."

The coach having by this time arrived, Wingfield hastened towards it,
and assisted its occupants to alight. Mrs. Bloundel was warmly welcomed
by Dame Wingfield, and being taken with her children to the house, was
truly happy to find herself under the shelter of its hospitable roof.
The rest of the party, assisted by Wingfield and his men, exerting
themselves to the utmost, the carts were speedily unloaded, and the
goods deposited in the barns and outhouses. This done, the drivers were
liberally rewarded for their trouble by Mr. Bloundel, and after draining
several large jugs of ale brought them by the farmer, made the best of
their way back, certain of obtaining further employment during the
night.

Fatigued as he was, Leonard, before retiring to rest, could not help
lingering on the brow of the hill to gaze at the burning city. The same
effect was observable here as at Paddington, and the conflagration
appeared little more than a mile off. The whole heavens seemed on fire,
and a distant roar was heard like the rush of a high wind through a
mighty forest. Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul's could be distinctly
seen in black relief against the sheet of flame, together with
innumerable towers, spires, and other buildings, the whole constituting
a picture unsurpassed for terrific grandeur since the world began, and
only to be equalled by its final destruction.

Having gazed at the conflagration for some time