is he you see lying
helpless on the bridge beneath you."

Not the clutch of an advancing flame could have made her shrink more
fearfully. "It is false," she cried; "you are lying now; you want me to
save _her_ child, and dare to say it is mine."

"As God lives!" he swore, lifting his hand and turning his face to the
sky.

Her whole attitude seemed to cry, "No, no," to his assertion but slowly
as she stood there, the conviction of its truth seemed to strike her,
and her hair rose on her forehead and she swayed to and fro, as if the
earth were rolling under her feet. Suddenly she gave a yell, and bounded
from the window. Catching the child in her arms, she attempted to regain
the refuge beyond, but the flames had not dallied at their work while
she hesitated. The bridge was on fire and her retreat was cut off. She
did not attempt to escape. Stopping in the centre of the rocking mass,
she looked down as only a mother in her last agony can do, on the child
she held folded in her arms; then as the flames caught at her floating
garments, stooped her head and printed one wild and passionate kiss upon
his brow. Another instant and they saw her head rise to the accusing
heavens, then all was rush and horror, and the swaying structure fell
before their eyes, sweeping its living freight into the courtyard
beneath their feet.

XLII.

PAULA RELATES A STORY SHE HAS HEARD.

"None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possessed."

--BYRON.

In the centre of a long low room not far from the scene of the late
disaster, a solitary lamp was burning. It had been lit in haste and cast
but a feeble flame, but its light was sufficient to illuminate the sad
and silent group that gathered under its rays.

On a bench by the wall, crouched the bowed and stricken form of Roger
Holt, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude expressive of the
utmost grief; at his side stood Mr. Sylvester, his tall figure looming
sombrely in the dim light; and on the floor at their feet, lay the dead
form of the little lame boy.

But it was not upon their faces, sad and striking as they were, that the
eyes of the few men and women scattered in the open door-way, rested
most intently. It was upon her, the bruised, bleeding, half-dead mother,
who kneeling above the little corpse, gazed down upon it with the
immobility of despair, moaning in utter heedlessness of her own
condition, "My baby, my baby,