fted a suffocating smoke
of burning wood and thatch, and the crackling and splitting of the old
roof sounded noisily above their voices; but Miss Anne commanded
herself, and spoke calmly to Stephen.

'We must open the door to them now,' she said; 'God will protect us from
these wicked men. Uncle! uncle! the house is really on fire, and we want
the keys. Let me in.'

She knocked loudly at his door, and lifted up her voice to make him
hear, and Stephen shouted; but there was no answer. Without the keys of
the massive locks it would not be possible to open the doors, and he had
them in his own keeping; but he gave no heed to their calls, nor the
vehement screams of the frightened servant. Perhaps he had fallen into a
fit; and they had no means of entering his chamber, so securely had he
fastened himself in with his gold. Stephen and Miss Anne gazed at one
another in the dazzling and ominous light, but no words crossed their
trembling lips. Oh, the horror of their position! And already other
voices were mingled with those of the assailants; and every one was
shouting from without, praying them to open the door, and be saved from
their tremendous peril.

'I'll not open the door!' said Mr. Wyley from within; 'they will rob and
murder me. They are come to kill me, and I may as well die here. There's
no help.'

'There is help, dear uncle!' cried Miss Anne; 'there are other people
from Botfield; and help is coming from Longville. Oh, let me in!'

'No,' said the master, 'they all hate me. They'll kill me, and say it
was done in the fire. I'll not open to anybody.'

She prayed and expostulated in vain; he cared little for their danger,
so hardened was he by a selfish fear for himself. The fire was gaining
ground quickly, for a brisk wind had sprung up, and the long-seasoned
timber in the old walls burnt like touchwood. The servant lay insensible
on the threshold of the master's chamber; and Miss Anne and Stephen
looked out from a front casement upon the gathering crowd, who implored
them, with frenzied earnestness, to throw open the door.

'Miss Anne,' cried Stephen, 'you can get through the pantry window; you
are little enough. Oh, be quick, and let me see you safe!'

'I cannot,' she answered: 'not yet! Not till the last moment. I dare not
leave my uncle and that poor girl. Oh, Stephen, if Martha would but
come!'

She rested her head against the casement, sobbing, as though her grief
could not be assuaged. Stephen felt