at torturing day was ever after engraved on the little
boy's memory. He and his father, both in high spirits, started off for
their last walk together. Giles used to make it a practice to accompany
his father part of the way to his station, trotting back afterwards
safely and alone to his mother and sister. To-day their way lay through
Smithfield Market, and the boy, seeing the Martyrs' Monument in the
center of the market-place, asked his father eagerly about it.

"Look, father, look!" he said, pointing with his finger. "What is that?"

"That is the figure of an angel, lad. Do you see, it is pointing up to
heaven. Do you know why?"

"No, father; tell us."

"Long ago, my lad, there were a lot of brave people brought just there
where the angel stands; they were tied to stakes in the ground and set
fire to and burned--burned until they died."

"Burned, father?" asked little Giles in a voice of horror.

"Yes, boy. They were burned because they were so brave they would rather
be burned than deny the good God. They were called martyrs, and that
angel stands there now to remind people about them and to show how God
took them straight to heaven."

"I think they were grand," answered the boy, his eyes kindling. "Can't
people be like that now?"

"Any one who would rather die than neglect a duty has, to my mind, the
same spirit," answered the man. "But now, lad, run home, for I must be
off."

"Oh, father, you are going to that place where the wonderful new
machinery is, and you said I might look at it. May I come?"

The father hesitated, finally yielded, and the two went on together. But
together they were never to come back.

That very day, with the summer sun shining, and all the birds in the
country far away singing for joy, there came a message for the brave
father. He was suddenly, in the full prime of his manly vigor, to leave
off doing God's work down here, doubtless to take it up with nobler
powers above. A fireman literally works with his life in his hands. He
may have to resign it at any moment at the call of duty. This
trumpet-call, which he had never neglected, came now for Giles Mason.

A fire broke out in the house where little Giles watched with keen
intelligence the new machinery. The machinery was destroyed, the child
lamed for life, and the brave father, in trying to rescue him and
others, was so injured by falling stones and pieces of woodwork that he
only lived a few hours.

The two were laid s