nse; the room
was filling faster and faster with the horrible, blinding, suffocating
thing. But at the window there was relief. Connie put out her head for a
minute, and then quickly drew it back.

"There's flames burstin' out o' the winders," she said. "I wish as the
firemen 'ud come."

The children clung to one another. Just then, above the roar of the
flames and the screams of the people, something else was distinctly
audible. The fast approach of horses; the gallant figures of men in
brass helmets: the brave firemen--members of the noblest brigade in the
world--were on the spot.

"It's hall right," said Connie. "They've come. Don't yer be a bit
frightened, Ronnie; we'll soon be out o' this. You ax Giles w'en you see
him wot _'e_ thinks o' firemen. '_Es_ father were one. Oh, there's no
fear now that they've come!"

She pressed close to the window and put out her head and shoulders.
Ronald did likewise. The men out in the street were acting promptly. The
hose were brought to bear on the increasing flames. But all to no
purpose; the house was past saving. Was any one within?

"No," said a woman down in the crowd; "hevery soul is out, even to my
last biby--bless him!"

She gave a hysterical cry, and sat down on a neighboring doorstep.

But the firemen of the London Brigade are very careful to ascertain for
themselves whether there is any likelihood of loss of life.

"Has any one come down from the top floor?" asked a tall young man. He
had a splendid figure--broad, square shoulders, and a light and athletic
frame--which showed at once that he was the very best possible sort of
fireman.

Just then the flames burst out more brightly than ever, and Connie, with
her fair hair surrounding her little face, and Ronald clinging to her
hand, were both distinctly seen.

"My God!" cried the firemen, "there are children up there. Put the
escape up at once--don't lose an instant--I am going up to them."

"You can't; it's certain death," said one or two. Several other voices
were also raised in expostulation. But if any one in that crowd supposed
that they were going to turn George Anderson, the bravest fireman in
London, from his purpose, they were mistaken.

"That little angel face, and the face of the boy by her side!" he said
once or twice under his breath. And then up and up he went--up and
up--the children in the burning room (for the flames had broken out
behind them now) watching and watching. His fear was that