ee, he is only a few
feet above a bridge that appears to communicate with the roof of the
next house. If he could be let down--"

But the man had already precipitated himself towards the door of the
room in which they were. "Tell him not to jump," he called back. "I am
going next door and will reach him in a moment. Tell him to hold on till
I come."

Mr. Sylvester at once raised his voice. "Don't jump, little boy Holt. If
there is no one there to drop you down, wait for your father. He is
going on the bridge and will catch you."

The little fellow seemed to hear, for he immediately held out his arms,
but if he spoke, his voice was drowned in the frightful hubbub.
Meanwhile the smoke thickened around him, and a dull ominous glare broke
out from the midst of the building, against which his weazen little face
looked pallid as death.

"His father will be too late," groaned Mr. Sylvester, feeling himself
somehow to blame for the child's horrible situation; then observing that
the other occupants of the building had all disappeared towards the
front, realized that whatever fire-escapes may have been provided, were
doubtless in that direction, and raising his voice once more, called out
across the yard, "Don't wait any longer, little fellow; follow the rest
to the front; you will be burned if you stay there."

But the child did not move, only held out his arms in a way to unman the
strongest heart; and presently while Mr. Sylvester was asking himself
what could be done, he heard his shrill piping tones rising above the
hiss of the flames, and listening, caught the words:

"I cannot get away. She is holding me, Dad. Help your little feller;
help me, I'm so afraid of being burnt." And looking closer, Mr.
Sylvester discerned the outlines of a woman's head and shoulders above
the small white face.

A distinct and positive fear at once seized him. Leaning out, the better
to display his own face and figure, he called to that unknown woman to
quit her hold and let the child go; but a discordant laugh, rising above
the roar of the approaching flames, was his only reply. Sickened with
apprehension, he drew back and himself made for the stairs in the wild
idea of finding the father. But just then the mad figure of Holt
appeared at the door, with frenzy in all his looks.

"I cannot push through the crowd," cried he, "I have fought and
struggled and shrieked, but it is all of no use. My boy is burning alive
and I cannot reach hi