to her.
Mr. Sinclair rose from his knees, but he lingered a moment to cast one
look on that still lovely face, to press his lips to that cold brow, and
then, reverently veiling it, he approached his daughter.

"Come quickly, papa!--not a moment is to be lost if you would save him
from death, and such a death--oh, papa, papa!--it may be even now too
late."

Her tale was rapidly told, and before it was concluded Mr. Sinclair was
ready for action.

"But the house, Mary, what house is he in?"

This Mary could not tell, but rapidly ascending the stairs to her room,
Mr. Sinclair obtained from the two gossips the information he sought.
Startled as they were by his appearance, they reverenced the rector too
much to question his designs. Leaving his daughter to forget even her
own heavy sorrow in the imminent danger of another--of one whom, without
any very satisfactory reason, she as well as Mr. Sinclair had at once
concluded to be her deliverer of the morning--let us follow his steps.

The church clock tolled eleven as Mr. Sinclair passed, and the sound
made his fleet movements fleeter still. Street after street was
traversed without a voice or tread, save his own, breaking the stillness
of the night. At length he reached the point of the day's devastations.
Dismantled and roofless houses, from which a dull glimmer showed that
the fire was not yet wholly extinguished, were seen rising here and
there, while in intervening spaces a charred and smouldering heap alone
gave evidence that man had had his dwelling there. A rapid glance as he
passed without a pause over this ground told its desolation. But
see--what object meets his eye, and causes every nerve to thrill with
apprehension! From the midst of one of those blackened heaps a single
post shoots up--wildly Mr. Sinclair casts his eyes upward to its
summit--gracious heaven! is he too late? To that post, about twenty feet
from the ground, a cross-piece is attached, to which a rope has been
secured, and from that rope a dark object hangs motionless. Sick with
horror he stops--he gazes--no! it is no illusion--dimly defined against
the star-lit sky, his eye, dilated by terror, traces the form of man,
and fancy supplies the traits of him who stood before him but a few
hours since in all the flush of manhood--every moment replete with
energy, every look full of proud resolve and generous feeling. With a
searching glance Mr. Sinclair looks around for the murderers--but they
are