Suddenly a ray of bright light shot through the window. Gorman started and drew back in alarm. It was only a lamp-lighter who had lighted one of the street-lamps, and the ray which he had thus sent into the sick-chamber passed over the bed. It did not disturb Boone, for the curtains were between him and it, but it disturbed Gorman, for it fell on the chimney-piece and illuminated a group of phials, one of which, half full of a black liquid, was labelled "Poison!"

Gorman started up, and this time did not sit down, but with a trembling step moved to the fireplace. He stretched out his hand to grasp the bottle, and almost overturned it, for just at the moment his own figure intercepted the ray of light, and threw the spot where it stood into deep shadow.

"What's that?" asked Boone.

"It's only me," said Gorman, "getting you your physic. I almost upset it in the dark. Here now, drink it off. I can't find the cup, but you can take it out of the bottle."

"You won't let him come near when you give it, will you?" asked Boone anxiously.

"No, no; come, open your mouth."

Boone hesitated to do so, but Gorman used a little force. His hands were steady now! His heart was steeled to the deed, and the cry which Boone was about to utter was choked by the liquid flowing down his throat.

Gorman had flung him back with such violence that he lay stunned, while the murderer replaced the bottle on the chimney-piece and hurried to the door. A gentle knock at it arrested him, but his indecision was momentary. He opened the door softly, and going out, said to Mrs Craw in a whisper—

"He's sleeping now. I found it hard to get him to give up talking, for he waked up soon after I went in; but he's all right now. I suppose the medicine is beginning to operate; he told me he took it himself just before I came in."

"Took it himself!" exclaimed Mrs Craw. "Impossible."

"Well, I don't know, but he's better now. I would let him rest a while if I were you."

"Stay, sir! I'll go fetch a light," said Mrs Craw.

"Never mind; I know the stair well," said Gorman hurriedly; "don't mind a light; I shan't want it."

He was right. If any man ever wanted darkness rather than light—thick, heavy, impenetrable darkness—it was D. Gorman at that time.

"Took it himself!" repeated Mrs Craw in unabated surprise as she closed the street door. "It's impossible. He's got no more strength than an unborn hinfant. I must go an' see to this."

Lighting a candle, she went softly into the sick chamber and looked at the invalid, who was apparently asleep, but breathing heavily. She then went to the chimney-piece and began to examine the phials there.

"My!" she exclaimed suddenly, with a look of alarm, "if he han't bin an' drunk up all the tinctur' o' rhubarb! An' the laudanum-bottle standin' close beside it too! What a mercy he didn't drink that! Well, lucky for him there wasn't much in it, for an overdose of anything in his state would be serious."

Full of her discovery, Mrs Craw set the candle on the table, and sat down on the chair by the bedside to think about it; but the more she thought about it the more puzzled she was.

"Took it himself," she said, reverting to Gorman's words. "Impossible!"

She continued to shake her head and mutter "Impossible" for some time, while she stared at the candle as if she expected that it would solve the mystery. Then she got up and examined the bedclothes, and found that a good deal of the rhubarb had been spilt on the sheets, and that a good deal more of it had been spilt on Boone's chin and chest; after which her aspect changed considerably, as, setting down the candle, she resumed her seat and said—

"Took it himself! Impossible!"

————————————————————————————————————

Darkness! If ever a man sought darkness in vain, and found light, bright blazing light, everywhere, it was Gorman. At first, in a burst of frenzy, he rushed away at full speed. It was well for him that the wind had increased to a hurricane and the rain was blinding, else had he been stopped on suspicion, so fierce was his mien, so haggard his look, so wild his race. Gradually his pace slackened, and gradually as well as naturally he gravitated to his old familiar haunts; but go where he would, there was light everywhere except within his own breast. It was all darkness there.

It is true the sky was dark enough, for the war of elements was so great that it seemed to have been blotted out with ink, but the shops appeared to have been lit up more brilliantly than usual. Every lamp poured a flood of light around it. The lanterns of the cabs and omnibuses sent rich beams of light through the air, and the air itself, laden as it was with moisture, absorbed a portion of light, and invested everything with a halo. Light, light! all round, and the light of conscience within rendering the darkness there visible, and shining on the letters of a word written in dark red—"Murderer!"

Gorman tried to extinguish the light, but it was a fire that would not be put out. He cursed the shop-windows and the lamps for shining so brightly on him; he cursed the few people whose curiosity induced them to pause and look back at him, and he cursed himself for being such a fool.

On reaching Cheapside he began to recover his self-possession, and to walk in the storm as other men did. But in proportion as his composure returned the enormity of his crime became more apparent to him, and the word written in red letters became so bright that he felt as if every passer-by must read it, unless he dropt his eyes to prevent their seeing through them into his soul.

At London Bridge he became nervously apprehensive. Each unusually quick footstep startled him. Every policeman was carefully avoided, and anything approaching to a shout behind caused him to start into an involuntary run. Despite his utmost efforts to control himself, the strong man was unmanned; a child could have made him fly.

He was about to cross London Bridge, when he observed a policeman taking shelter under the parapet, and apparently watching those who passed him. Gorman could not make up his mind to go on, so he turned aside and descended the nearest stairs.

The policeman had doubtless been watching for someone, or suspected Gorman because of his undecided movements, for he followed him. The latter observed this and quickened his pace. The instant he was hidden from his pursuer, he darted away at full speed, and did not halt until he stood at the foot of one of the stairs where wherries are usually to be found. The sight that met his gaze there might have overawed the most reckless of men.

A hurricane was raging such as is not often experienced in our favoured island. The wind blew, not in gusts and squalls, but in one continuous roar, lashing the Thames into crested waves, tearing ships from their moorings, and dashing them against other ships, which were likewise carried away, and swept downward with the tide. Dozens of barges were sunk, and the shrieks of their crews were heard sometimes rising above the storm.

The gale was at its height when Gorman came into full view of the Thames. A waterman, who was crouching for shelter in the angle of a warehouse, observed him, and came forward.

"An awful night, sir," he said.

"Yes," answered Gorman curtly. He started as he spoke, for he heard, or he fancied he heard, a shout behind him.

"Is that your boat?" said he.

"It is," replied the waterman in surprise, "you don't want to go on the water on such a night, do you?"

"Yes, I do," said Gorman, trembling in every limb; "come, jump in, and shove off."

At that moment a policeman came running down towards them.

"Are you mad?" exclaimed the man, grasping Gorman by the arm as he sprang toward the boat.

In a moment, Gorman struck him to the ground, and leaping into the boat pushed off, just as the policeman came up. He was whirled away instantly.

Grasping one of the oars, he was just in time to prevent the boat being dashed against one of the wooden piers of a wharf. He was desperate now. Shipping both oars he pulled madly out into the stream, but in a few moments he was swept against the port-bow of a large vessel, against the stem of which the water was curling as if the ship had been breasting the Atlantic waves before a stiff breeze. One effort Gorman made to avoid the collision, then he leaped up, and just as the boat struck, sprang at the fore-chains. He caught them and held on, but his hold was not firm; the next moment he was rolling along the vessel's side, tearing it with his nails in the vain attempt to grasp the smooth hull. He struck against the bow of the vessel immediately behind and was swept under it.

Rising to the surface, he uttered a wild shriek, and attempted to stem the current. He was a powerful swimmer, and despair lent him energy to buffet the waves for a short time; but he was again swept away by the irresistible tide, and had almost given up hope of being saved, when his forehead was grazed by a rope which hung from a vessel's side. Seizing this, he held on, and with much difficulty succeeded in gaining the vessel's deck.

With his safety Gorman's fear of being captured returned. He hid himself behind some lumber, and while in this position wrung some of the water out of his clothes. In a few minutes he summoned courage to look about him, and discovered that the vessel was connected with the one that lay next to it by a plank. No one appeared to be moving, and it was so dark that he could not see more than four or five yards before him. To pass from one vessel to the other was the work of a few seconds. Finding that the second vessel lay moored to the quay, he sprang from it with all his might and alighted safely on the shore. From the position of the shipping he knew that he stood on the south bank of the river, having been swept right across the Thames, so he had now no further difficulty in hiding his guilty head in his own home.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

NEW LIGHTS OF VARIOUS KINDS.

Time sped on apace, and in its train came many changes.

To the confusion of the doctor and despite the would-be murderer, David Boone recovered. But that brought no relief to Gorman, whose remorse increased daily, insomuch that he became, if not quite, very nearly, insane, and his fear of being caught was so great that he never ventured near the quarter of London in which Boone dwelt. He therefore remained in ignorance of the failure of his murderous attempt. What would he not have given to have known the truth! to have had the dreadful word removed from the light which shone upon it brighter and brighter every day until it was made red-hot, as it were, and became within him as a consuming fire! Preferring darkness to light more than ever, Gorman kept in secret places during the day, and only ventured out, with other human vultures, at night. The wretched man feared the darkness, too, although he sought it, and what between the darkness that he feared yet courted, and the light that he feared and fled from, and the light within that he feared but could not fly from, he became one of the most miserable of all the outcasts in London.

As for his deep-laid plans they were all scattered to the winds. In the presumption of ignorance he had fancied that he knew his own power, and so in one sense he did, but he was not aware of his own want of power. He knew, indeed, that he had the brute courage to dare and do anything desperate or dastardly, but he did not know that he lacked the moral courage to bear the consequences of his deeds. The insurance policies, therefore, lay unclaimed—even uncared for!

Another change for the worse effected by time was the death of Loo Auberly. Gradually and gently her end approached. Death was so slow in coming that it was long expected, yet it was so very slow that when it came at last it took her friends by surprise. James Auberly continued stiff and stately to the last. He refused to believe that his child was dying, and spared no expense to provide everything that money could procure to restore her health. He also refused to be reconciled to his son Fred, who had succeeded in his loved profession beyond his expectations, and who had sought, again and again, to propitiate his father. At last Fred resolved to go abroad and study the works of the ancient masters. He corresponded regularly with Loo for some time, but his letters suddenly ceased to make their appearance, and nothing was heard of him for many months.

During the long and weary illness Loo had three friends whose visits were to her soul like gleams of sunshine on a cloudy day—Miss Tippet, Emma Ward, and a poor artificial-flower maker named Ziza Cattley.

Those three, so different yet so like, were almost equally agreeable to the poor invalid. Miss Tippet was "so funny but so good," and Emma's sprightly nature seemed to charm away her pain for a time; while grave, gentle, earnest Ziza made her happy during her visits, and left a sensation of happiness after she went away. All three were equally untiring in talking with her about the "old, old story"—the Love of Jesus Christ.

Yes, it comes to this at last, if not at first, with all of us. Even the professed infidel, laugh as he may in the spring-tide of life, usually listens to that "old, old story" when life's tide is very low, if not with faith at least with seriousness, and with a hope that it may be true. May be true! Why, if the infidel would only give one tithe of the time and trouble and serious inquiry to the investigation of that same old story and its credentials that he gives so freely to the study of the subtleties of his art or profession, he would find that there is no historical fact whatever within his ken which can boast of anything like the amount or strength of evidence in favour of its truth, that exists in favour of the truth of the story of the Life, Death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord.

When Loo died the stateliness and stiffness of James Auberly gave way, and the stern man, leaning his head upon the coffin, as he sat alone in the darkened room, wept as if he had been a little child.

There was yet another change brought about by that great overturner Time. But as the change to which we refer affects those who have yet to take a prominent part in our tale, we will suffer them to speak for themselves.

One afternoon, long after the occurrence of those changes to which reference has just been made, Mrs Willders, while seated quietly at her own fireside (although there was no fire there, the month being June), was interrupted in her not unusual, though innocent, occupation of darning socks by the abrupt entrance of her son Frank, who flung his cap on the table, kissed his mother on the forehead, and then flung himself on the sofa, which piece of furniture, being old and decrepit, groaned under his weight.

"Mother," he exclaimed with animation, "I've got strange news to tell you. Is Willie at home?"

"No, but I expect him every minute. He promised to come home earlier to-day, and won't be long, for he is a boy of his word."

Mrs Willders persisted in calling her strapping sons "boys," despite the evidence to the contrary on their cheeks and chins.

"Here he comes!" cried Frank, as a rapid step was heard.

Next moment the door burst open and Willie, performing much the same ceremony that Frank had done, and in a wonderfully similar way, said he had come home with something strange to tell, though not altogether strange either, as his mother, he said, knew something about it already.

Mrs Willders smiled and glanced at Frank.

"Which is to begin first?" she asked.

"What! do you know about it, too?" cried Willie, turning to his brother.

"Know about what?" said Frank. "You have not told me what it is; how can I answer you?"

"About Mr Auberly," said Willie.

Frank said that he knew nothing new or peculiar about him, except that he was—no, he wouldn't say anything bad of him, for he must be a miserable man at that time.

"But out with your news, Willie," he added, "mine will keep; and as yours is, according to yourself, partly known already to my mother, it's as well to finish off one subject before we begin to another."

"Oh, then, you have news, too, have you?" said Willie.

Frank nodded.

"Strange coincidence!" exclaimed Willie.

"Did you ever hear of a coincidence that was not strange, lad? Go on with your news, else I'll begin before you."

Thus admonished, Willie began.

"Oh, mother, you're a nice deceiver; you're a sly old lady, ain't you? and you sit there with a face as meek and sweet and smiling as if you had never deceived anybody in all your life, not to speak of your two sons. O, fy!"

As Mrs Willders still smiled and went on with her knitting serenely, without vouchsafing a reply, Willie continued with an off-hand air—"Well, then, I may as well tell you that I have just had an interview with Uncle Auberly—hallo! you seem surprised."

Mrs Willders was indeed surprised. Her serenity of aspect fled in an instant.

"Oh, Willie, how comes it that you know? I'm sure I did not mean to tell you. I promised I never would. I must have let it out inadvertently, or when I was asleep."

"Make yourself quite easy, mother," said Willie; "I'll explain it all presently. Just go on with your knitting, and don't put yourself into a state."

The widow, recovering herself a little, resumed her work, and Frank, who had listened with an amused smile up to this point—supposing that his brother was jesting—elongated his face and opened his eyes wider and wider as he listened.

"You must know," resumed Willie, "that I received a note from Mr Auberly last night, asking me to call on him some time this afternoon. So I went, and found him seated in his library. Poor man, he has a different look now from what he had when I went last to see him. You know I have hardly ever seen him since that day when I bamboozled him so about 'another boy' that he expected to call. But his spirit is not much improved, I fear. 'Sit down, Mr Willders,' he said. 'I asked you to call in reference to a matter which I think it well that the parties concerned should understand thoroughly. Your brother Frank, I am told, has had the presumption to pay his addresses to Miss Ward, the young lady who lives with my relative, Miss Tippet.' 'Yes, Mr Auberly,' I replied, 'and Miss Ward has had the presumption to accept him—'"

"It was wrong of you to answer so," interrupted Mrs Willders, shaking her head.

"Wrong, mother! how could I help it? Was I going to sit there and hear him talk of Frank's presumption as if he were a chimney-sweep?"

"Mr Auberly thinks Miss Ward above him in station, and so deems his aspiring to her hand presumption," replied the widow gently. "Besides, you should have remembered the respect due to age."

"Well, but, mother," said Willie, defending himself, "it was very impudent of him, and I did speak very respectfully to him in tone if not in words. The fact is I felt nettled, for, after all, what is Miss Ward? The society she mingles in is Miss Tippet's society, and that's not much to boast of; and her father, I believe, was a confectioner—no doubt a rich one, that kept his carriage before he failed, and left his daughter almost a beggar. But riches don't make a gentleman or a lady either, mother; I'm sure you've often told me that, and explained that education, and good training, and good feelings, and polite manners, and consideration for others, were the true foundations of gentility. If that be so, mother, there are many gentlemen born who are not gentlemen bred, and many lowly born who—"

"Come, lad, don't bamboozle your mother with sophistries," interrupted Frank, "but go on to the point, and don't be so long about it."

"Well, mother," resumed Willie, "Mr Auberly gave me a harder rebuke than you have done, for he made no reply to my speech at all, but went on as quietly and coolly as if I had not opened my lips. 'Now,' said he, 'I happen to have a particular regard for Miss Ward. I intend to make her my heir, and I cannot consent to her union with a man who has nothing.' 'Mr Auberly,' said I (and I assure you, mother, I said this quite respectfully), 'my brother is a man who has little money, no doubt, but he has a good heart and a good head and a strong arm; an arm, too, which has saved life before now.' I stopped at that, for I saw it went home. 'Quite true,' he replied; 'I do not forget that he saved my lost child's life; but—but—the thing is outrageous—that a penniless man should wed the lady who is to be my heir! No, sir, I sent for you to ask you to say to your brother from me, that however much I may respect him I will not consent to this union, and if it goes on despite my wishes I shall not leave Miss Ward a shilling.' He had worked himself up into a rage by this time, and as I felt I would only make matters worse if I spoke, I held my tongue; except that I said I would deliver his message at once, as I expected to meet my brother at home. He seemed sorry for having been so sharp, however, and when I was about to leave him he tried to smile, and said, 'I regret to have to speak thus to you, sir, but I felt it to be my duty. You talk of meeting your brother to-night at home; do you not live together?' 'No, sir,' I replied; 'my brother lodges close to his station, and I live with my mother in Notting Hill.'

"'Notting Hill!' he cried, falling back in his chair as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. 'Your mother,' he gasped, 'Mrs Willders—my sister-in-law—the waterman's widow?' 'A sailor's widow, sir,' said I, 'who is proud of the husband, who rose to the top of his profession.'

"'Why did you deceive me, sir?' cried Mr Auberly, with a sudden frown. 'I would have undeceived you,' said I, 'when we first met, but you dismissed me abruptly at that time, and would not hear me out. Since then, I have not thought it worth while to intrude on you in reference to so small a matter—for I did not know till this day that we are related.' He frowned harder than ever at this, and bit his lip, and then said, 'Well, young man, this will make no difference, I assure you. I desire you to convey my message to your brother. Leave me now.' I was just on the point of saying 'Good-bye, uncle,' but he covered his face with his hands, and looked so miserable, that I went out without a word more. There, you've got the whole of my story. What think you of it?"

"It's a curious one, and very unexpected, at least by me," said Frank, "though, as you said, part of it must have been known to mother, who, no doubt, had good reasons for concealing it from us; but I rather think that my story will surprise you more, and it's a better one than yours, Willie, in this respect, that it is shorter."

"Come, then, out with it," said Willie, with a laugh; "why, this is something like one of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments."

"Well, mother," said Frank, laying his hand gently on the widow's shoulder, "you shan't darn any more socks if I can help it, for I'm a man of fortune now!"

"How, Frank?" said Mrs Willders, with a puzzled look.

"The fact is, mother, that Mrs Denman, the poor old lady whom I carried down the escape, I forget how many years ago, is dead, and has left me her fortune, which, I believe, amounts to something like twenty thousand pounds!"

"You don't mean that!" cried Willie, starting up.

"Indeed, I do," said Frank earnestly.

"Then long life to ye, my boy!" cried Willie, wringing his brother's hand, "and success to the old—well, no, I don't exactly mean that, but if she were alive I would say my blessing on the old lady. I wish you joy, old fellow! I say, surely the stately man won't object to the penniless fireman now—ha! ha! Well, it's like a dream; but tell us all about it, Frank."

"There is very little to tell, lad. I got a very urgent message the day before yesterday to go to see an old lady who was very ill. I obtained leave for an hour, and went at once, not knowing who it was till I got there, when I found that it was Mrs Denman. She looked very ill, and I do assure you I felt quite unmanned when I looked into her little old face. 'Young man,' she said in a low voice, 'you saved my life; I am dying, and have sent for you to thank you. God bless you.' She put out her thin hand and tried to shake mine, but it was too feeble; she could only press her fingers on it. That was all that passed, and I returned to the station feeling quite in low spirits, I do assure you. Well, next day a little man in black called, and said he wished to have a few words with me. So I went out, and he introduced himself as the old lady's lawyer, told me that she was gone, and that she had, almost with her last breath, made him promise to go, the moment she was dead, and see the fireman who had saved her life, and tell him that she had left her fortune to him. He congratulated me; said that there were no near relations to feel aggrieved or to dispute my rights, and that, as soon as the proper legal steps had been taken—the debts and legacies paid, etcetera,—he would have the pleasure of handing over the balance, which would probably amount to twenty thousand pounds."

"It's like a dream," said Willie.

"So it is," replied Frank, "but it's well that it is not a dream, for if I had been the penniless man that Mr Auberly thinks me, I would have been obliged in honour to give up Emma Ward."

"Give her up!" exclaimed Willie in amazement. "Why?"

"Why! because I could not think of standing in the way of her good fortune."

"Oh, Frank! oh, Blazes," said Willie sadly, "has money told on you so fearfully already? Do you think that she would give you up for the sake of Auberly's dross?"

"I believe not, lad; but—but—well—never mind, we won't be troubled with the question now. But, mother, you don't seem to think much of my good fortune."

"I do think much of it, Frank; it has been sent to you by the Lord, and therefore is to be received with thanksgiving. But sudden good fortune of this kind is very dangerous. It makes me anxious as well as glad."

At that moment there came a loud knocking at the door, which startled Mrs Willders, and caused Willie to leap up and rush to open it.

Frank rose and put on his cap with the quiet promptitude of a man accustomed to alarms.

"That's a fire, mother; the kind of knock is quite familiar to me now. Don't be alarmed; we hear that kind of thing about two or three times a day at the station; they knew I was here, and have sent a messenger."

"A fire!" cried Willie, running into the room in great excitement.

"Tut, lad," said Frank, with a smile, as he nodded to his mother and left the room, "you'd never do for a fireman, you're too excitable. Where's the messenger?—ah, here you are. Well, where is it?"

"Tooley Street," exclaimed a man, whose condition showed that he had run all the way.

Frank started, and looked very grave as he said hurriedly to his brother—

"Good-night, lad. I won't likely be able to get out to-morrow to talk over this matter of the fortune. Fires are usually bad in that neighbourhood. Look well after mother. Good-night."

In another moment he was gone.

And well might Frank look grave, for when a fireman is called to a fire in Tooley Street, or any part of the docks, he knows that he is about to enter into the thickest of the Great Fight. To ordinary fires he goes light-heartedly—as a bold trooper gallops to a skirmish, but to a fire in the neighbourhood of the docks he goes with something of the feeling which must fill the breast of every brave soldier on the eve of a great battle.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

THE FIRE IN TOOLEY STREET.

One of those great calamities which visit us once or twice, it may be, in a century, descended upon London on Saturday, the 22nd of June, 1861. It was the sudden, and for the time, overwhelming, attack of an old and unconquerable enemy, who found us, as usual, inadequately prepared to meet him.

Fire has fought with us and fed upon us since we became a nation, and yet, despite all our efforts, its flames are at this day more furious than ever. There are more fires daily in London now than there ever were before. Has this foe been properly met? is a question which naturally arises out of this fact. Referring to the beautiful organisation of the present Fire Brigade, the ability of its chiefs and the courage of its men, the answer is, Yes, decidedly. But referring to the strength of the brigade; to the munitions of war in the form of water; to the means of conveyance in the form of mains; to the system of check in the shape of an effective Act in reference to partition-walls and moderately-sized warehouses; to the means of prevention in the shape of prohibitions and regulations in regard to inflammable substances— referring to all these things, the answer to the question, "Has the foe been properly met?" is emphatically, No.

It is not sufficient to reply that a special inquiry has been made into this subject; that steps are being actually taken to remedy the evils of our system (or rather of our want of system) of fire prevention. Good may or may not result from this inquiry: that is yet to be seen. Meanwhile, the public ought to be awakened more thoroughly to the fact that an enemy is and always has been abroad in our land, who might be, if we chose, more effectively checked; who, if he has not yet attacked our own particular dwelling, may take us by surprise any day when we least expect him, and who does at all times very materially diminish our national wealth and increase our public burdens. Perhaps we should not style fire an enemy, but a mutinous servant, who does his work faithfully and well, except when neglected or abused!

About five o'clock on Saturday afternoon intelligence of the outbreak of fire in Tooley Street reached the headquarters of the brigade in Watling Street.

Fire in Tooley Street! The mere summons lent energy to the nerves and spring to the muscles of the firemen. Not that Tooley Street in itself is more peculiarly dangerous in regard to fire than are the other streets of shops in the City. But Tooley Street lies in dangerous neighbourhood. The streets between it and the Thames, and those lying immediately to the west of it, contain huge warehouses and bonded stores, which are filled to suffocation with the "wealth of nations." Dirty streets and narrow lanes here lead to the fountain-head of wealth untold—almost inconceivable. The elegant filigree-work of West End luxury may here be seen unsmelted, as it were, and in the ore. At the same time the rich substances on which fire feeds and fattens are stored here in warehouses which (as they are) should never have been built, and in proximities which should never have been permitted. Examine the wharves—Brooks' Wharf, Beal's Wharf, Cotton's Wharf, Chamberlain's Wharf, Freeman's Wharf, Griffin's Wharf, Stanton's Wharf, and others. Investigate the lanes—Hay's Lane, Mill Lane, Morgan's Lane; and the streets—Bermondsey, Dockhead, Pickle Herring Street, Horsleydown, and others—and there, besides the great deposit and commission warehouses which cover acres of ground, and are filled from basement to ridge-pole with the commodities and combustibles of every clime, you will find huge granaries and stores of lead, alum, drugs, tallow, chicory, flour, rice, biscuit, sulphur, and saltpetre, mingled with the warehouses of cheese-agents, ham-factors, provision merchants, tarpaulin-dealers, oil and colour merchants, etcetera. In fact, the entire region seems laid out with a view to the raising of a bonfire or a pyrotechnic display on the grandest conceivable scale.

Little wonder, then, that the firemen of Watling Street turned out all their engines, including two of Shand and Mason's new land-steam fire-engines, which had at that time just been brought into action. Little wonder that the usual request for a man from each station was changed into an urgent demand for every man that could possibly be spared.

The fire began in the extensive wharves and warehouses known as Cotton's Wharf, near London Bridge, and was first observed in a warehouse over a counting-room by some workmen, who at once gave the alarm, and attempted to extinguish it with some buckets of water. They were quickly driven back, however, by the suffocating smoke, which soon filled the various floors so densely that no one could approach the seat of the fire.

Mr Braidwood, who was early on the spot, saw at a glance that a pitched battle was about to be fought, and, like a wise general, concentrated all the force at his command. Expresses were sent for the more distant brigade engines, and these came dashing up, one after another, at full speed. The two powerful steam floating-engines which guard the Thames from fire were moored off the wharf, two lengths of hose attached to them, and led on shore and brought to bear on the fire. A number of land-engines took up a position in Tooley Street, ready for action, but these were compelled to remain idle for nearly an hour before water was obtainable from the fire-plugs. O London! with all your wealth and wisdom, how strange that such words can be truly written of you!

The vessels which were lying at the wharf discharging and loading were hauled out of danger into the stream.

In course of time the engines were in full play, but the warehouse burst into flames from basement to roof in spite of them, and ere long eight of the great storehouses were burning furiously. The flames made rapid work of it, progressing towards the line of warehouses facing the river, and to the lofty building which adjoined on the Tooley Street side.

Dale and his men were quickly on the scene of action, and had their engine soon at work. Before long, Frank Willders joined them. They were playing in at the windows of a large store, which was burning so furiously that the interior appeared to be red-hot.

"Relieve Corney, lad," said Dale, as Frank came forward.

"Och, it's time!" cried Corney, delivering up the branch to Frank and Moxey; "sure Baxmore and me are melted intirely."

Frank made no reply. He and Moxey directed the branch which the others resigned, turning their backs as much as possible on the glowing fire, and glancing at it over their shoulders; for it was too hot to be faced.

Just then the Chief of the brigade came up.

"It's of no use, sir," said Dale; "we can't save these."

"True, Dale, true," said Mr Braidwood, in a quick, but quiet tone; "this block is doomed. Take your lads round to the nor'-east corner; we must try to prevent it spreading."

As he surveyed the progress of the fire, with a cool, practical eye, and hurried off to another part of the battle-field to post his men to best advantage, little did the leader of the forces think that he was to be the first to fall that day!

Engines were now playing on the buildings in all directions; but the flames were so fierce that they made no visible impression on them, and even in the efforts made to check their spreading, little success appeared to attend them at first. Warehouse after warehouse ignited.

To make matters worse, a fresh breeze sprang up, and fanned the flames into redoubled fury; so that they quickly caught hold of vast portions of the premises occupied by the firm of Scovell and Company.

"There's not a chance," said Frank to Dale, while he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat down for a few seconds to recover breath; for he had just issued from a burning building, driven back by heat and smoke—

"There's not a chance of saving that block; all the iron doors that were meant to keep the fire from spreading have been left open by the workmen!"

"Chance or no chance, we must do our best," said Dale. "Come, lad, with me; I think we may get at a door inside the next warehouse, through which we might bring the branch to bear. Are you able?"

"All right," exclaimed Frank, leaping up, and following his leader through the smoke.

"Have a care!" cried Frank, pausing as a tremendous explosion caused the ground to tremble under their feet.

"It's sulphur or saltpetre," said Dale, pushing on; "there are tons upon tons of that stuff in the cellars all round."

This was indeed the case. It was said that upwards of 2,000 tons of saltpetre were in the vaults at the time; and several explosions had already taken place, though fortunately, without doing injury to any one.

Dale had already partially examined the warehouse, into which he now led Frank; and, therefore, although it was full of smoke, he moved rapidly along the narrow and intricate passages between the bales of goods, until he reached an iron door.

"Here it is; we'll open this and have a look," he said, grasping the handle and swinging the heavy door open.

Instantly, a volume of black smoke drove both the men back, almost suffocating them. They could not speak; but each knew that the re-closing of that iron door was all-important, for the fire had got nearer to it than Dale had imagined.

They both darted forward; but were again driven back, and had to rush to the open air for breath. Frank recovered before his comrade, in consequence of the latter having made a more strenuous and prolonged effort to close the door which he had so unfortunately opened.

Without a moment's hesitation, he sprang into the warehouse again; regained and partially closed the door, when the stifling smoke choked him, and he fell to the ground. A few seconds later, Dale followed him, and found him there. Applying his great strength with almost superhuman energy to the door, it shut with a crash, and the communication between the buildings was cut off! Dale then seized Frank by the collar, and dragged him into the open air, when he himself almost sank to the ground. Fresh air, however, soon restored them both, and in a few minutes they were actively engaged at another part of the building.

Bravely and perseveringly though this was done, it availed not, for nothing could withstand the fury of the fire. The warehouse caught, and was soon a glowing mass like the others, while the flames raged with such violence that their roaring drowned the shouting of men, and the more distant roar of the innumerable multitude that densely covered London Bridge, and clustered on every eminence from which a safe view of the great fire could be obtained.

The floating fire-engines had now been at work for some time, and the men in charge of their branches were suffering greatly from the intense heat. About this time, nearly seven o'clock in the evening, Mr Braidwood went to these men to give them a word of encouragement. He proceeded down one of the approaches to the river from Tooley Street, and stopped when nearly half way to give some directions, when a sudden and tremendous explosion, took place, shaking the already tottering walls, which at this place were of great height. A cry was raised, "Run! the wall is falling!" Every one sprang away at the word. The wall bulged out at the same time; and one of the firemen, seeing that Mr Braidwood was in imminent danger, made a grasp at him as he was springing from the spot; but the heavy masses of brick-work dashed him away, and, in another moment, the gallant chief of the Fire Brigade lay buried under at least fifteen feet of burning ruin.

Any attempt at rescue would have been impossible as well as unavailing, for death must have been instantaneous. The hero's warfare with the flames, which had lasted for upwards of thirty-eight years, was ended; and his brave spirit returned to God Who gave it.

That a man of no ordinary note had fallen was proved, before many hours had passed, by the deep and earnest feeling of sorrow and sympathy which was manifested by all classes in London, from Queen Victoria downwards, as well as by the public funeral which took place a few days afterwards, at which were present the Duke of Sutherland, the Earl of Caithness, the Reverend Doctor Cumming, and many gentlemen connected with the insurance offices; the committee and men of the London Fire Brigade; also those of various private and local brigades; the secretary and conductors of the Royal Society for the Protection of Life from Fire; the mounted Metropolitan and City police; the London Rifle Brigade (of which Mr Braidwood's three sons were members); the superintendents and men of the various water companies; and a long string of private and mourning carriages: to witness the progress of which hundreds of thousands of people densely crowded the streets and clustered in the windows and on every available eminence along the route; while in Cheapside almost all the shops were shut and business was suspended; and in the neighbourhood of Shoreditch toiling thousands of artisans came forth from factory and workshop to "see the last of Braidwood," whose name had been so long familiar to them as a "household word." The whole heart of London seemed to have been moved by one feeling, and the thousands who thronged the streets "had" (in the language of one of the papers of the day) "gathered together to witness the funeral, not of a dead monarch, not of a great warrior, not of a distinguished statesman, not even of a man famous in art, in literature, or in science, but simply of James Braidwood, late superintendent of the London Fire-Engine Establishment"—a true hero, and one who was said, by those who knew him best, to be an earnest Christian man.

But at the moment of his fall his men were engaged in the thick of battle. Crushing though the news of his death was, there was no breathing time to realise it.

The fierce heat had not only driven back the firemen on shore, but had compelled the floating fire-engines to haul off, in consequence of the flaming matter which poured over the wharf wall and covered the surface of the river the entire length of the burning warehouses; while the whole of the carriageway of Tooley Street was ankle deep in hot oil and tallow. After the fall of their Chief, Messrs. Henderson and Fogo, two of the principal officers of the brigade, did their utmost to direct the energies of the men.

Night closed in, and the flames continued to rage in all their fury and magnificence. News of this great fire spread with the utmost rapidity over the metropolis. Indeed, it was visible at Hampstead while it was yet daylight. When darkness set in, one of the most extraordinary scenes that London ever produced was witnessed. From all quarters the people came pouring in, on foot, in omnibus, cab, pleasure-van, cart, and waggon—all converging to London Bridge. At nine o'clock the bridge and its approaches presented all the appearance of the Epsom Road on the Derby Day. Cabs and 'buses plied backwards and forwards on the bridge all night, carrying an unlimited number of passengers at 2 pence and 3 pence each, and thousands of persons spent the night in thus passing to and fro. The railway terminus, Billingsgate Market, the roof of the Coal Exchange, the Monument, the quays, the windows, the house-tops, the steeples, and the chimney-stalks—all were crowded with human beings, whose eager upturned faces were rendered intensely bright against the surrounding darkness by the fierce glare of the fire. But the Thames presented the most singular appearance of all—now reflecting on its bosom the inky black clouds of smoke; anon the red flames, as fresh fuel was licked up by the devouring element, and, occasionally, sheets of silver light that flashed through the chaos when sulphur and saltpetre explosions occurred. Mountains of flame frequently burst away from the mass of burning buildings and floated upward for a few moments, and the tallow and tar which flowed out of the warehouses floated away blazing with the tide and set the shipping on fire, so that land and water alike seemed to be involved in one huge terrific conflagration.

The utmost consternation prevailed on board the numerous craft on the river in the vicinity of the fire, for thick showers of sparks and burning materials fell incessantly. Gusts of wind acted on the ruins now and then, and at such moments the gaunt walls, cracked and riven out of shape, stood up, glowing with intense white heat in the midst of a sea of fire from which red flames and dark clouds of smoke were vomited, as from the crater of some mighty volcano, with a roar that mingled with the shouts of excited thousands, and drowned even the dull incessant thumpings of the engines that worked in all directions.

Moored alongside of Chamberlain's Wharf was a small sloop. Little blue blisters of light broke out on her rigging; soon these increased in size, and in a few minutes she was on fire from stem to stern. Immediately after, there came a barge with flowing sails, borne on the rising tide. She passed too near to the conflagration. Her crew of three men became panic-stricken and lost control of her. At sight of this a great shout was raised, and a boat put off and rescued the crew; but almost before they were landed their barge was alight from stem to stern. The tremendous cheer that burst from the excited multitude at sight of this rescue rose for a moment above the roaring of the conflagration. Then another barge was set on fire by the blazing tallow which floated out to her, but she was saved by being scuttled.

In the midst of such a scene it was to be expected that there would be damage to life and limb. The firemen, besides being exposed to intense heat for hours, were almost blinded and choked by the smoke emitted from the burning pepper—more especially the cayenne—of which there was a large quantity in the warehouses. Some of the men who were working the engines fell into the river and were drowned. A gentleman who was assisting the firemen had his hand impaled on an iron spike. A poor Irishman had his neck broken by the chain of the floating-engine, and several of the police force and others were carried to hospital badly burned and otherwise injured.

Some of the casualties occurred in places where only a few persons were there to witness them, but others were enacted on the river, and on spots which were in full view of the vast multitudes on London Bridge. A boat containing five men put off to collect the tallow which floated on the water, but it got surrounded by tallow which had caught fire, and the whole of its occupants were either burned to death or drowned. Later in the night a small skiff rowed by a single man was drawn by the tide into the vortex of the fire. Another boat ran out and saved the man, but a second boat which was pulled off by a single rower for the same purpose was drawn too near the fire, and its brave occupant perished. So eager were the multitude on the bridge to witness these scenes that some of themselves were forced over the parapet into the river and drowned.

Comical incidents were strangely mingled with these awful scenes, although it is but justice to say the prevailing tone of the crowd was one of solemnity. Itinerant vendors of ginger-beer, fruit, cakes, and coffee ranged themselves along the pavements and carried on a brisk trade—especially after the public-houses were closed, many of which, however, taking advantage of the occasion, kept open door all night.

Among these last was the "Angel," belonging to Gorman.

That worthy was peculiarly active on this occasion. He never neglected an opportunity of turning an honest penny, and, accordingly, had been engaged from an early hour in his boat collecting tallow; of which plunder a considerable amount had been already conveyed to his abode.

Besides Gorman, several of the other personages of our tale found their way to the great centre of attraction, London Bridge, on that night. Among them was John Barret, who, on hearing of the fire, had left his snug little villa and pretty little wife to witness it.

He had already made one or two cheap trips on one of the omnibuses, and, about midnight, got down and forced his way to a position near the south side of the bridge. Here he was attracted to a ginger-beer barrow which an unusually adventurous man had pushed through the crowd into a sheltered corner. He forced his way to it, and, to his amazement, found the owner to be his former friend Ned Hooper.

"Hallo! Barret."

"Why, Ned!" were the exclamations that burst simultaneously from their lips.

"This is a strange occupation," said Barret with a smile.

"Ah, it may seem strange to you, no doubt, but it's familiar enough to me," replied Ned, with a grin.

The demand for beer was so great at this time that Ned could not continue the conversation.

"Here, boy," he said to an urchin who stood near, "you draw corks as fast as you can and pour out the beer, and I'll give you a copper or two and a swig into the bargain."

The boy accepted the post of salesman with alacrity, and Ned turned to his friend and seized his hand.

"Barret," said he, in a low, earnest voice, "if I succeed in holding out, I own my salvation, under God, to you. I've tasted nothing but ginger-beer for many a long day, and I really believe that I have got my enemy down at last. It's not a lucrative business, as you may see," he added with a sad smile, glancing at his threadbare garments, "nor a very aristocratic one."

"My dear Ned," cried Barret, interrupting, and suddenly thrusting his hand into his pocket.

"No, Barret, no," said Ned firmly, as he laid his hand on the other's, arm; "I don't want money; I've given up begging. You gave me your advice once, and I have taken that—it has been of more value to me than all the wealth that is being melted into thin air, John, by yonder fire—"

Ned was interrupted at this point by a burst of laughter from the crowd. The cause of their mirth was the appearance of a tall, thin, and very lugubrious-looking man who had come on the bridge to see the fire. He had got so excited that he had almost fallen over the parapet, and a policeman had kindly offered to escort him to a place of safety.

"Why, what d'ye mean?—what d'ye take me for?" cried the tall man angrily; "I'm an honest man; my name is David Boone; I've only come to see the fire; you've no occasion to lay hold o' me!"

"I know that," said the policeman; "I only want to get you out of danger. Come along now."

Just then a thickset man with a red handkerchief tied round his head came forward to the stall and demanded a glass of beer. The moment his eyes encountered those of Boone he became pale as death and staggered back as if he had received a deadly blow.

"Is that you, Gorman?" cried David, in a voice and with an expression of amazement.

Gorman did not reply, but gazed at his former friend with a look of intense horror, while his chest heaved and he breathed laboriously. Suddenly he uttered a loud cry and rushed towards the river.

Part of the crowd sprang after him, as if with a view to arrest him, or to see what he meant to do. In the rush Barret and Boone were carried away.

A few moments later a deep murmur of surprise rose from the thousands of spectators on the bridge, for a boat was seen to dash suddenly from the shore and sweep out on the river. It was propelled by a single rower—a man with a red kerchief tied round his head. The murmur of the crowd suddenly increased to a shout of alarm, for the man was rowing, his boat straight towards a mass of tallow which floated and burned on the water.

"Hold on!" "Lookout ahead!" shouted several voices, while others screamed "Too late!" "He's gone!" and then there arose a wild cry, for the man rowed straight into the centre of the burning mass and was enveloped in the flames. For one moment he was seen to rise and swing his arms in the air—then he fell backwards over the gunwale of his boat and disappeared in the blazing flood.

Fiercer and fiercer raged the fire. The night passed—the day came and went, and night again set in—yet still the flames leaped and roared in resistless fury, and still the firemen fought them valiantly. And thus they fought, day and night, hand to hand, for more than a fortnight, before the battle was thoroughly ended and the victory gained.

How the firemen continued to do their desperate work, day and night, almost without rest, it is impossible to tell. Frank Willders said that, after the first night, he went about his work like a man in a dream. He scarcely knew when, or how, or where he rested or ate. He had an indistinct remembrance of one or two brief intervals of oblivion when he supposed he must have been asleep, but the only memory that remained strong and clear within him was that of constant, determined fighting with the flames. And Willie Willders followed him like his shadow! clad in a coat and helmet borrowed from a friend in the Salvage Corps. Willie fought in that great fight as if he had been a trained fireman.

On the fourth day, towards evening, Frank was ordered down into a cellar where some tar-barrels were burning. He seized the branch, and was about to leap down the stair when Dale stopped him.

"Fasten the rope to your belt," he said.

Frank obeyed without speaking and then sprang forward, while Dale himself followed, ordering Corney, Baxmore, and one or two others, to hold on to the ropes. Willie Willders also ran in, but was met by such a dense cloud of smoke that he was almost choked. Rushing back, he shouted, "Haul on the ropes!"

The men were already hauling them in, and in a few seconds Dale and Frank were dragged by their waist-belts into the open air, the former nearly, and the latter quite, insensible.

In a few minutes they both recovered, and another attempt was made to reach the fire in the cellar, but without success.

The public did not witness this incident. The firemen were almost surrounded by burning ruins, and none but comrades were there.

Indeed, the public seldom see the greatest dangers to which the fireman is exposed. It is not when he makes his appearance on some giddy height on a burning and tottering house, and is cheered enthusiastically by the crowd, that his courage is most severely tried. It is when he has to creep on hands and knees through dense smoke, and hold the branch in the face of withering heat, while beams are cracking over his head, and burning rubbish is dropping around, and threatening to overwhelm him—it is in such circumstances, when the public know nothing of what is going on, and when no eye sees him save that of the solitary comrade who shares his toil and danger, that the fireman's nerve and endurance are tested to the uttermost.

After leaving the cellar, Dale and his men went to attempt to check the fire in a quarter where it threatened to spread, and render this—the greatest of modern conflagrations—equal to the great one of 1666.

"We might reach it from that window," said Dale to Frank, pointing to a house, the sides of which were already blistering, and the glass cracking with heat.

Frank seized the branch and gained the window in question, but could not do anything very effective from that point. He thought, however, that from a window in an adjoining store he might play directly on a house which was in imminent danger. But the only means of reaching it was by passing over a charred beam, thirty feet beneath which lay a mass of smouldering ruins. For one moment he hesitated, uncertain whether or not the beam would sustain his weight. But the point to be gained was one of great importance, so he stepped boldly forward, carrying the branch with him. As he advanced, the light of the fire fell brightly upon him, revealing his tall figure clearly to the crowd, which cheered him heartily.

At that moment the beam gave way. Willie, who was about to follow, had barely time to spring back and gain a firm footing, when he beheld his brother fall headlong into the smoking ruins below.

In another moment he had leaped down the staircase, and was at Frank's side. Baxmore, Dale, Corney, and others, followed, and, in the midst of fire and smoke, they raised their comrade in their arms and bore him to a place of safety.

No one spoke, but a stretcher was quickly brought, and Frank was conveyed in a state of insensibility to the nearest hospital, where his manly form—shattered, burned, and lacerated—was laid on a bed. He breathed, although he was unconscious and evinced no sign of feeling when the surgeons examined his wounds.

A messenger was despatched for Mrs Willders, and Willie remained to watch beside him while his comrades went out to continue the fight.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

THE LAST.

For many months Frank Willders lay upon his bed unable to move, and scarcely able to speak. His left leg and arm had been broken, his face and hands were burned and cut, and his once stalwart form was reduced to a mere wreck.

During that long and weary time of suffering he had two nurses who never left him—who relieved each other day and night; smoothed his pillow and read to him words of comfort from God's blessed book. These were, his own mother and Emma Ward.

For many weeks his life seemed to waver in the balance, but at last he began to mend. His frame, however, had been so shattered that the doctors held out little hope of his ever being anything better than a helpless cripple, so, one day, he said to Emma:

"I have been thinking, Emma, of our engagement." He paused and spoke sadly—as if with great difficulty.

"And I have made up my mind," he continued, "to release you."

"Frank!" exclaimed Emma.

"Yes, dear. No one can possibly understand what it costs me to say this, but it would be the worst kind of selfishness were I to ask you to marry a poor wretched cripple like me."

"But what if I refuse to be released, Frank?" said Emma, with a smile; "you may, indeed, be a cripple, but you shall not be a wretched one if it is in my power to make you happy; and as to your being poor—what of that? I knew you were not rich when I accepted you, and you know I have a very, very small fortune of my own which will at least enable us to exist until you are able to work again."

Frank looked at her in surprise, for he had not used the word poor with reference to money.

"Has mother, then, not told you anything about my circumstances of late?" he asked.

"No, nothing; what could she tell me that I do not already know?" said Emma.

Frank made no reply for a few moments, then he said with a sad yet gratified smile—

"So you refuse to be released?"

"Yes, Frank, unless you insist on it," replied Emma.

Again the invalid relapsed into silence and shut his eyes. Gradually he fell into a quiet slumber, from which, about two hours later, he awoke with a start under the impression that he had omitted to say something. Looking up he found that his mother had taken Emma's place. He at once asked why she had not told Emma about the change in his fortunes.

"Because I thought it best," said Mrs Willders, "to leave you to tell her yourself, Frank."

"Well, mother, I depute you to tell her now, and pray do it without delay. I offered to give her up a short time ago, but she refused to listen to me."

"I'm glad to hear it," replied the widow with a smile. "I always thought her a good, sensible girl."

"Hm! so did I," said Frank, "and something more."

Once again he became silent, and, as an inevitable consequence, fell fast asleep. In which satisfactory state we will leave him while we run briefly over the events of his subsequent history.

In direct opposition to the opinion of all his doctors, Frank not only recovered the use of all his limbs, but became as well and strong as ever—and the great fire in Tooley Street left no worse marks upon him than a few honourable scars.

His recovery, however, was tedious. The state of his health, coupled with the state of his fortune, rendered it advisable that he should seek the benefit of country air, so he resigned his situation in the London Fire Brigade—resigned it, we may add, with deep regret, for some of his happiest days had been spent in connection with that gallant corps.

Rambling and fishing among the glorious mountains of Wales with his brother Willie, he speedily regained health and strength. While wandering with delight through one of the most picturesque scenes of that wild and beautiful region, he came suddenly one day on a large white umbrella, under which sat a romantic-looking man, something between an Italian bandit and an English sportsman, who was deeply engrossed with a sheet of paper on which he was depicting one of the grandest views in the splendid pass of Llanberis. At this man Willie rushed with a shout of surprise, and found that he answered at once to the name of Fred Auberly! Fred was thrown into such a state of delight at the sight of his old friends that he capsized the white umbrella, packed up his paints, and accompanied them to their inn. Here, on being questioned, he related how that, while in Rome he had been seized with a fever which laid him prostrate for many weeks; that, on his recovery, he wrote to Loo and his father, but received no reply from either of them; that he afterwards spent some months in Switzerland, making more than enough of money with his brush to "keep the pot boiling," and that, finally, he returned home to find that dear Loo was dead, and that the great Tooley Street fire had swept away his father's premises and ruined him. As this blow had, however, been the means of softening his father, and effecting a reconciliation between them, he was rather glad than otherwise, he said, that the fire had taken place. Fred did not say— although he might have said it with truth—that stiff and stately Mr Auberly had been reduced almost to beggary, and that he was now dependent for a livelihood on the very palette and brushes which once he had so ruthlessly condemned to the flames!

After this trip to Wales, Frank returned home and told his mother abruptly that he meant to marry Emma Ward without delay, to which Mrs Willders replied that she thought he was quite right. As Emma appeared to be of the same mind the marriage took place in due course. That is to say, Miss Tippet and Emma managed to put it off as long as possible and to create as much delay as they could. When they had not the shadow of an excuse for further delay—not so much as a forgotten band or an omitted hook of the voluminous trousseau—the great event was allowed to go on—or, "to come off."

Many and varied were the faces that appeared at the church on that auspicious occasion. Mr Auberly was there to give away the bride, and wonderfully cheerful he looked, too, considering that he gave her to the man whom he once thought so very unworthy of her. Willie was groomsman, of course, and among the bridesmaids there was a little graceful, dark-eyed and dark-haired creature, whom he regarded as an angel or a fairy, or something of that sort, and whom everybody else, except Frank and Mrs Willders, thought the most beautiful girl in the church. In the front gallery, just above this dark-eyed girl, sat an elderly man who gazed at her with an expression of intense affection. His countenance was careworn and, had a somewhat dissipated look upon it. Yet there was a healthy glow on it, too, as if the dissipation were a thing of the distant past. The dark-eyed girl once or twice stole a glance at the elderly man and smiled on him with a look of affection quite as fervent as his own. There was a rather stylish youth at this man's elbow whose muscles were so highly developed that they appeared about to burst his superfine black coat. He was observed to nod familiarly to the dark-eyed girl more than once, and appeared to be in a state of considerable excitement—ready, as it were, to throw a somersault over the gallery on the slightest provocation.

Of course, Miss Tippet was there in "such a love of a bonnet," looking the picture of happiness. So was Mr Tippet, beaming all over with joy. So was Miss Deemas, scowling hatred and defiance at the men. So was David Boone, whose circumstances had evidently improved, if one might judge from the self-satisfied expression of his face and the splendour of his attire. John Barret was also there, and, close beside him stood Ned Hooper, who appeared to shrink modestly from observation, owing, perhaps, to his coat being a little threadbare. But Ned had no occasion to be ashamed of himself, for his face and appearance showed clearly that he had indeed been enabled to resist temptation, and that he had risen to a higher position in the social scale than a vendor of ginger-beer.

In the background might have been seen Hopkins—tall and dignified as ever, with Matty Merryon at his side. It was rumoured "below-stairs" that these two were engaged, but as the engagement has not yet advanced to anything more satisfactory, we hold that to be a private matter with which we have no right to meddle.

Close to these stood a group of stalwart men in blue coats and leathern belts, and with sailor-like caps in their hands. These men appeared to take a lively interest in what was going forward, and evidently found it difficult to restrain a cheer when Frank took Emma's hand. Once or twice during the service one or two other men of similar appearance looked into the church as if in haste, nodded to their comrades, and went out again, while one of them appeared in the organ loft with a helmet hanging on his arm and his visage begrimed with charcoal, as if he were returning from a recent fire. This man, feeling, no doubt, that he was not very presentable, evidently wished to see without being seen. He was very tall and stout, and was overheard to observe, in very Irish tones, that "it was a purty sight intirely."

When the carriage afterwards started from the door, this man—who bore a strong resemblance to Joe Corney—sprang forward and called for three cheers, which call was responded to heartily by all, but especially by the blue-coated and belted fellows with sailor-like caps, who cheered their old comrade and his blooming bride with those deep and thrilling tones which can be produced in perfection only by the lungs and throats of true-blue British tars!

Now, it must not be supposed that this was the end of Frank's career. In truth, it was only the beginning of it, for Frank Willders was one of those men who know how to make a good use of money.

His first proceeding after the honeymoon was to take a small farm in the suburbs of London. He had a tendency for farming, and he resolved at least to play at it if he could make nothing by it. There was a small cottage on the farm, not far from the dwelling-house. This was rented by Willie, and into it he afterwards introduced Ziza Cattley as Mrs William Willders. The widow inhabited another small cottage not a hundred yards distant from it, but she saw little of her own home except at night, being constrained to spend most of her days with one or other of her "boys."

As the farm was near a railway station, Willie went to town every morning to business—Saturdays and Sundays excepted—and returned every evening. His business prospered and so did Mr Tippet's. That eccentric old gentleman had, like Mr Auberly, been ruined by the great fire, but he did not care—so he said—because the other business kept him going! He was not aware that Willie's engineering powers turned in all the money of that other business, and Willie took care never to enlighten him, but helped him as of old in planning, inventing, and discovering, to the end of his days.

There was one grand feature which Frank introduced into his suburban establishment which we must not omit to mention. This was a new patent steam fire-engine. He got it not only for the protection of his own farm, but, being a philanthropic man, for the benefit of the surrounding district, and he trained the men of his farm and made them expert firemen. Willie was placed in command of this engine, so that the great wish of his early years was realised! There was not a fire within ten miles round them at which Willie's engine was not present; and the brothers continued for many years to fight the flames together in that neighbourhood.

As for stout George Dale, and sturdy Baxmore, and facetious Joe Corney, with his comrades Moxey, Williams, and Mason, and Sam Forest, those heroes continued to go on the even tenor of their way, fighting more battles with the flames in six months than were fought with our human enemies by all our redcoats and blue-jackets in as many years, and without making any fuss about it, too, although danger was the element in which they lived, and wounds or death might have met them any day of the year.

For all we know to the contrary, they may be carrying on the war while we pen this chronicle, and, unless more vigorous measures are adopted for preventing fire than have been taken in time past, there can be no question that these stout-hearted men will in time to come have more occasion than ever for—fighting the flames.

THE END.