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It was Saturday afternoon on a busy street in the city. Moses Wopp and Clarence Crump, at whose home the former was spending the week end, were on their way to the skating-rink. If they had wanted to skate there, the streets would have accommodated them with a sufficiently smooth surface, as an early frost had rimed the pavement. The roar of the flames came dreadfully near. Trees cracked, crashed and fell, sending up columns of sparks and cinders that dropped about the panting climbers. Billy began to wonder if he would hold out to the end of his task. His boy’s agility had easily outdone the man’s; but he had made the trip once before that day, had ridden from town at a killing speed; and now his endurance was almost at an end, while the Sheriff was getting his “second wind.” He was standing disconsolate, looking up the street for stragglers, when his mother came in again..

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Betty gazed shyly at her inquisitor. Her brown eyes sparkled with the adventure of meeting a real live piannerist, as she called him. Dinner was over and Mr. Zalhambra stood before the fire in the drawing-room grate. Stooping to warm his large white hands over the flame, his hypnotic eyes reflected strangely the glow of the fire. He watched Nell Gordon as she sat stroking the flowing fair tresses of Betty. St. Elmo’s face brightened with intelligence. He broke into the story to give a graphic account of how a little yellow chicken of his sister’s had got “dwownded” in the pig-trough. “O, Mar, jist a teeny-weeny brown crust, it carn’t hurt me.” “You are not a baby, my son; you’ll soon be a man, and it’s time you did your own thinking. Don’t be late for dinner.”.