"Sartin. I do wot I kin while de can'el hole out to burn," Tobe assented rising.

"That's right, my man, and you'll help other candles to hold out."

"Doctor, understand me," explained George, "I must go and search for Captain Bodine, who is wandering on crutches about the city," and he hastened to say a word to his father.

Ella saw him kneel by the old man, and then rise after a moment or two with such gladness in his face that even the blood and dust stains could not disguise it. Little wonder, for Mr. Houghton had said, "I'm conquered, George. I give all up—all my ambitious dreams about you. What dreams they now seem! This awful earthquake has shaken away everything except life, and the love which makes life worth anything. I've seen the girl, and I don't blame you. Go ahead."

"Oh, thanks, thanks. You'll never be sorry; but, father, please don't say anything to her about—about—Well, she don't know, and I must woo before I can hope to win."

"You needn't worry about me. I'm old enough to be wary," and the old man could not repress a grim smile. Then he added, "George, for mercy's sake, try to get the blood and dust off your face and find a coat. You look as if you had been through a prize-fight."

George explained the quest he was about to enter upon, and promised caution. Then he approached Ella. "Miss Bodine," he said, "I will now search for your father till I find him."

Again the girl could not trust herself to speak, but tears came into her eyes as she gave him her hand. He pressed it so hard as to leave a delicious ache, and hastened away.

"Good Lor! who was that awful-looking man?" Mrs. Bodine asked Ella.

"George Houghton. He carried you from home here."

"Lor! Lor! Saved my life as well as yours and Cousin Hugh's?"

"Yes, and now he's going to help papa and Mara."

"Well, well, we'll have to forgive him for being born North. Is that old—"

Ella stopped her mouth with a kiss, and whispered: "That is his father. Don't let us look at him. In fact, I'm afraid to—at least while he is so ill."

"Well," ejaculated Mrs. Bodine, "if this earthquake does not cure him of his cussedness, I hope the Lord will take him to heaven."

"He did not prevent George from coming to me, nor his going to papa's aid. He was kind, too, to that poor woman yonder. Oh, I'm sorry for her, and I wish I could do something."

"Perhaps you can. Go and see."

"I've nothing to put under your head, cousin."

"I'll put patience under it. That, I reckon, is all I have left now. Go, Ella, dear, I can't bear to hear her moan. I'm in no pain, and that wine has quite heartened me."

Ella did as she was bidden. That Mr. Houghton was observant was quickly proved, for he said to Jube, "Take this pillow to that lady yonder. If she declines, say you have your orders, and leave it."

Mrs. Bodine raised herself on her elbow and protested.

"Madam," said Mr. Houghton, "do not deny a helpless man the privilege of doing a little for the comfort of others at a time like this."

"But you have none left for yourself, sir," Mrs. Bodine replied.

"Madam, you can understand what a satisfaction that will be to me under the circumstances."

Mrs. Bodine yielded and admitted to herself that she was much more comfortable. "I reckon the earthquake is doing him good," she thought, "and that the Lord better keep him here a while longer."

"Can't you lift me up a little?" gasped the injured woman to Ella. "Oh, how I suffer, suffer!"

Ella sat down beside her, and gently shifted the pillow so that it came under the wounded back, while the weary head rested against her bosom.

"Ah!" said the poor creature, "that's easier. I reckon I won't have to suffer much longer."

Ella spoke soothingly and gently. Mr. Houghton, who could only hear the sweet tenderness of her tones, wiped tears from his eyes as he again murmured, "God forgive me, blind, obstinate old fool that I've been!"

The adjacent flames now lighted up the entire scene, throwing their baleful light on such an assemblage as had never before gathered in this New World.

The convulsion which threatened to raze every home in the city had certainly brought the people down to the same level. Both white and colored citizens were mingled together on the square in a swiftly created democracy. Character, the noble qualities of the soul, without regard to color or previous condition, now only gave distinction.



CHAPTER XLII

A HOMELESS CITY

The efforts of Clancy and Mara combined with the vigorous and sensible ministrations of Aun' Sheba at last brought consciousness to Mrs. Hunter. Tearing up a linen sheet they stanched and bound up her wounds, and then Clancy said, "We must get her to one of the squares and under a physician's care as soon as possible."

"My folks is gwine to Mar'on Squar, an' dar I promise ter come," said Aun' Sheba. "It's 'bout as nigh as any ob dem."

Mrs. Hunter looked at Clancy, and shrank from him visibly. He said quickly, "Surely, Mrs. Hunter, all enmities should be forgotten at this time, or at least put aside. We should leave this narrow side-street at once."

"Aunty," said Mara, gently, "Mr. Clancy has saved us both from destruction. For my sake and Aun' Sheba's as well as your own, you must let him do all in his power."

The earthly, yet unearthly, rumble of another shock put an end to further hesitation. It would be long before the terror inspired by this phenomenon would cease to be overwhelming.

Aun' Sheba lifted her arms imploringly to heaven, while the vivid consciousness of the direst peril known brought Mara and Clancy together again in an embrace that was the natural expression of the feeling that, if die they must, they would die together. With such black ruin about them, caused by one shock, the fear could not be combated that the next might end everything.

When the convulsion passed, Clancy and Aun' Sheba immediately formed a chair with their hands, and Mara helped Mrs. Hunter, now ready enough to escape by any means, to avail herself of it. They made their way with difficulty over the debris to King Street. Here they were obliged to pause and rest. No rest, however, did Clancy obtain, for a momentary glance revealed one of the awful phases of the disaster. Three or four doors above them, houses were burning from overturned and exploded lamps. Some of the shop-keepers were frantically endeavoring to save a few of their goods, often, in their excitement, carrying out the strangest and most valueless articles. Clancy's brief glance gave no heed to such efforts, but before he could turn away, a woman with a child in her arms came rushing from one of the burning houses. Her dress had touched the fire, and was beginning to burn. Clancy caught one of the blankets from Mara, and with it extinguished the flames, while Mara took the infant. The instant the babe was out of her arms the mother tried to break away and rush back, shrieking, "There's another! there's another child!"

"Where?" cried Clancy, restraining her.

"In the front room there."

"Stay here, then," and he darted through the doorway, out of which the smoke was pouring as from a chimney.

Mara and the mother looked after him in breathless and agonized suspense. The flames had burst suddenly into the apartment, and through the windows they could see him enter, snatch up the child, and disappear. But he did not come out of the street door as soon as they expected. They could endure waiting no longer. Both dashed into the smoke-clouded passage-way, and stumbled against Clancy Where he had sunk down within a few steps of safety.

The mother seized her child, while Mara, with a strength given by her heart, dragged the strangling man to the open air. By this time Aun' Sheba was at her side, and between them they carried him to the spot where Mrs. Hunter lay. Now that he could breathe he soon recovered; Mara's tender and imploring words being potent indeed in rallying him. His exposure to heat and the smoke had been terrible, but fortunately very brief. He was soon on his feet, exclaiming, "We must go on to Meeting Street, for there we shall have a better chance."

Thither they made their way with other fugitives, Clancy and Aun' Sheba carrying Mrs. Hunter as before, Mara following with the infant, and close beside her the grateful mother with the other child.

Having reached a somewhat open space in the wider thoroughfare, the young man became satisfied that another mode of transportation must be found. Mrs. Hunter was too heavy for the primitive method adopted in the emergency. Aun' Sheba took the injured woman's head upon her lap while he rested and looked about for something like an army stretcher. Among the ruins he found one of the long wooden shutters which a jeweller had placed against his window hours before. Watches and gems gleamed in the light of kindling fires, and were within easy reach, but the most unscrupulous of thieves were honest that night. Clancy carried the shutter to Mrs. Hunter's side, and then watched for some man whom he could persuade into his service.

The great thoroughfare was full of fugitives, and soon among them the mother recognized a man of her acquaintance, who took charge of her and the children. The majority, like Clancy, had been delayed by efforts in behalf of the sick or injured, and already had their hands full. Others were so dazed and horror-stricken that they moved about aimlessly, or sat upon the pavement, moaning and lamenting in despairing accents. It would appear as if the emergency developed the strength and the weakness of every mind. Some were evidently crazed. As Mara stood beside Mrs. Hunter to prevent the crowd from trampling upon her, she saw a half-dressed man, breaking his way through the throng. The maniac stopped before her, and for a moment fixed upon her wild, blood-shot eyes, then placed an infant in her arms, and with a yell bounded away. Mara, horror-stricken, saw that the child was dead, and that its neck was evidently broken. Clancy came up immediately, and taking the infant laid it down out of the central path, for all kept to the middle of the street.

As he did so, he heard his name called by a voice he knew too well. The feeling it inspired compelled him again to recognize how false he had been to himself and also to Miss Ainsley. Her summons now brought the feeling that he too, like Mara, was bound, and he went instantly to her side.

"Ah, you deserted me!" she said bitterly.

He silently pointed to Mrs. Hunter, who presented so sad a spectacle that even the exacting girl had no further words of reproach, but she glanced keenly at Mara.

"We feared a tidal wave," Mr. Willoughby explained, "and so decided to seek the upper portion of the city."

"Mrs. Willoughby, if you are able to walk," said Clancy, "your husband must aid me and Aun' Sheba in carrying Mrs. Hunter, who is very badly injured."

"Oh, now that the first terrible shock to my nerves is over, I am as well able to take care of myself as any of you," replied the spirited little woman.

"That's like you!" exclaimed Clancy heartily. Then turning, he said with emphasis, "Miss Ainsley, you see that a man's first duty to-night is to the injured and utterly helpless."

"Forgive me," she replied in tones meant for his ear only, "I did not know you owed so much to Mrs. Hunter and her niece."

"I shall owe my services to every injured man and woman until all are rescued," was his quiet reply. Then he helped Mr. Willoughby place Mrs. Hunter on the improvised support, and between them they bore her onward, the others following.

Their progress was necessarily slow, for the street was encumbered not only with fugitives like themselves, but also with tangled telegraph-wires and all sorts of other impediments. Once they had to cower tremblingly under a tall building while a fire-engine thundered by, threatening to bring down upon them the shattered walls. As they resumed their slow and painful march Bodine met them, his glad, outspoken greeting to Mara filling her heart with new grief and dismay, while it allayed the jealousy and bitterness of Miss Ainsley's wounded pride.

The Northern girl had heard the report that Mara and the veteran were engaged, and here was confirmation. Mara inquired eagerly after Mrs. Bodine and Ella, then took her place at the captain's side, while Clancy moved on with set teeth and a desperate rallying of his physical powers, which he knew to be failing.

Now that Ella was in the square, young Houghton was not so impetuous as to ignore the claims of nature or to be regardless of his outward appearance. He again returned to his home, and saw Sam kneeling and praying aloud near the barn, with the two horses standing beside him.

"Sam, go to the square," he shouted.

"Can't lebe dese hosses. Dey's bofe lookin' ter me, an' I'se prayin' fer dem an us all."

"No matter about the horses. The house is too near." Then he ventured into the butler's pantry, cleansed his face and the cuts and bruises about his head, snatched some food, and hastened away. He believed he had a hard night's work before him, and that he must maintain his strength. He had not gone very far down Meeting Street before he met the group accompanying Mrs. Hunter. With a glad cry he welcomed Mrs. Willoughby, and was about to take her hand when Clancy said, "Houghton, for God's sake, quick!"

George caught the end of the litter while Clancy reeled backward and would have fallen had not Mara, with a cry she could not repress, caught him in her arms and sunk with him to the pavement. He gasped a moment or two, then his eyes closed; he became still and looked as if dead.

Again the supremely dreaded subterranean rumble was heard. Mr. Willoughby shouted wildly, "Forward, quick! We can't stay here under these buildings." He and Houghton went on with a rush, the rest following with loud cries, Miss Ainsley's piercing scream ringing out above all. She did not even look back at her prostrate suitor.

Mara paid no heed to the passing shock, but with eyes full of anguish looked upon the white face in her lap.

"Mara," said the deep voice of Bodine after the awful sound had passed. She started violently and began to tremble.

"Mara, go with the others. I will stay with Mr. Clancy."

She shook her head, but was speechless.

He stood beside her, his face full of deep and perplexed trouble.

At last she said hoarsely, "You go and bring aid. He saved aunty and me, and I cannot leave him."

At this moment Aun' Sheba came running back, exclaiming: "Good Lawd forgib me dat I should leab my honey lam'! My narbes all shook out ob jint like de houses, an' my legs run away wid me, dog gone 'em! Dey's brung me back howsomeber. Now, Missy Mara, gib him ter me;" and taking him under the arms she dragged him by the adjacent tall buildings. "Missy," she added, sinking down with her burden, "go on ter de squar wid Marse Bodine, an' tell dat ar young Houghton ter come quick, 'fore my legs run away wid me agin." "Both of you go to the square," commanded Bodine in the tone he would have used on the battlefield. "I will stay. There shall be no useless risk of life."

Mara lifted her dark eyes to his face. Even at that moment he knew he should never forget their expression. "My friend," she said in low, agonized tones, "he may be dying, he may be dead. I cannot, will not leave him."

"No, he ain't dead," said Aun' Sheba, with her hand over Clancy's heart, "but seems purty nigh it. Him jes gone beyon his strengt. Ole missus po'ful heby ef she ain't fat like me. Tank de Lawd, I hasn't ter be toted ter-night. No one but Kern ud tote me. Po' Kern! him heart jes break wen he know."

Bodine stood guard silent and grim while Mara mechanically chafed one of Clancy's hands. She was now far beyond tears, far beyond anything except the anguish depicted in her face. In a confused way she felt that the terrible events of the night and her own heart had overpowered her; and, with a half-despairing recklessness, she merely lived from moment to moment.

The earthquake had ceased to have personal terrors for Bodine. He had faced death too often. Nevertheless a great fear oppressed him as he looked down upon the girl he loved.

The square was not far away; Houghton and Mr. Willoughby came hastening back, and Clancy was soon added to the group of sufferers under Dr. Devoe's care.

To Miss Ainsley's general disgust at a city in which she had been treated to such a rude and miserable experience, was added a little self-disgust that she had rushed away and left Clancy to his fate. She tried to satisfy herself by thinking that he had acted in much the same way toward her, but it would not answer. Mrs. Hunter's blood-stained face, rendered tenfold more ghastly by the light of the flames, was too strong refutation, and the fact that Mara had remained with Clancy had its sting. She saw Ella and many others ministering to the injured and feeble, and felt that she must redeem her character. When the unconscious man was brought in, therefore, she hastened forward to receive and in a measure claim him.

Although mentally comparing her conduct with that of Mara, Houghton and Mr. Willoughby thought it was all right, put Clancy in her charge, and began to follow Dr. Devoe's directions. Mara gave the girl a look which brought a blush to her face, and then devoted herself to her aunt.

Captain Bodine's first act was to speak gently and encouragingly to his daughter and cousin, congratulating the latter on her recovery.

"Yes, Hugh," said the old lady, "I'm safe, safer than I've been at other times in my life. This is but one more storm, and it is only driving me nearer the harbor. You look dreadfully; you're worn out."

"More by anxiety than exertion. It is awful to be so helpless at such a time."

"Sit down here on the grass beside me. I want to talk. I may not have much more chance in this world, but feel sure that I shall do my share in the next. Oh, Hugh, Hugh, we've all been shaken like naughty children, and some of us may be the better and the wiser for it. If Ella and that gallant knight of hers survive, how happy they will be! It makes me happy even to think of it, though for aught we know the earth may open and swallow us all within the next five minutes."

"Yes, the dear child! Thank God for her sake!"

"For your own too. There is Mara safe also. Poor Mrs. Hunter! she looks death-like to me. You look awfully too. I never saw you so pale and haggard."

"Cap'n Bodine, Marse Houghton send you dis," said Jube at his elbow, proffering a glass of wine.

The captain turned his startled eyes upon his old employer, who lay just out of earshot of their low tones.

"Take it, Hugh," said his cousin earnestly. "Drink to the death of hate. He and I have made up."

The veteran hesitated, and a spasm, as if from a wrench of pain, passed over his face. Then he took the glass, and said coldly, "I drink to your recovery, sir."

"I thank you," was Mr. Houghton's response.

"A very fair beginning, Hugh, for a man," his cousin resumed. "You might as well give up at once, though. Everything is going to be shaken down that shouldn't stand."

Ominous words to the veteran, for he felt that his dream of happiness was falling in ruins.

By the natural force of circumstances the several characters of our story had been brought comparatively near together, yet were separated into little groups. Dr. Devoe passed from one to the other as his services were needed, nor were they confined to those known to us. He simply made a little open space beside Mr. Houghton his headquarters, where he left his remedies under the charge of the invalid, Jube, and old Tobe. Other physicians had joined him and were indefatigable in the work of relief. Some of the city clergy were also in the square, speaking words of Christian faith and hope, which never before had seemed so precious.

To Clancy Dr. Devoe gave a good deal of attention. Not only was his hair singed, but his neck and hands were badly burned, and his swoon was so obstinate as to indicate great exhaustion. This could scarcely be otherwise, for he possessed no such physique as young Houghton had developed. Moreover, he had passed through a mental strain and excitement which no one could comprehend except Mara, and she but partially. Houghton had put his coat under the head of the unconscious man, and was doing his best for him. So also was Miss Ainsley now. She had purposely turned her back on Mara, and her face was toward the adjacent conflagration, which distinctly lighted up her face and form, transforming her into a vision of marvellous beauty. Her long hair had fallen in a golden veil over her bare shoulders and neck; her dark eyes were lustrous with excitement and full of solicitude. When at last Clancy opened his eyes his first impression was that an angel was ministering to him in a light too brilliant to be earthly. He recognized Miss Ainsley's voice, however, and when he had taken some of the wine which the doctor pressed to his lips, all that had happened came back to him. George now returned in solicitude to his father, also designing to take a little much-needed rest, while the doctor gave his attention to other patients. With returning consciousness Clancy was overpowered by a deep sense of gratitude to this beautiful creature, and also by a strong feeling of compunction that he had sought the regard which she now seemed to bestow unstintedly. "Like Mara," he thought, "there is nothing left for me but to fulfil obligations from which I cannot honorably withdraw."

"You are indeed kind and devoted," he said feebly. "I fear I have made a good deal of trouble."

"No, Mr. Clancy, you have gone beyond your strength. In fact, we are all distracted and half beside ourselves. Won't you let me take your head into my lap? If I am caring for you I can better endure these awful scenes." And she made the change.

"I hope you will forgive me for leaving you so abruptly on the Battery. Mrs. Hunter and Miss Wallingford really had no one to look to."

"Captain Bodine evidently thinks Miss Wallingford should look to him."

"In such an emergency he would be even more helpless than she."

"Oh, well, I hope the worst is now over for us all, and that we can soon get away from this awful town."

He gave no answer. Miss Ainsley knew that her father was not far distant, and that he would come for her by the first train which could reach the city. Accustomed all her life to look at everything from the central point of self, she now, in the greater sense of safety, began to give some thought to the future. Her first conscious decision was to try to be as brave as possible, and so leave a good impression. The second was to get away from the city at once, and she hoped she might never see it again. If Clancy would go with her, if he would even eventually join her at the North, she believed that she could marry him, so favorable was the impression that he had made, but she felt that she was making a great concession, which he must duly appreciate. At present the one consuming wish was to escape, to get away from scenes which to her were horrible in the last degree.

In truth only a brave spirit could witness what was taking place on every side, or maintain fortitude under the overwhelming impression of personal danger—an impression which soon banished the partial sense of security felt after reaching the square. The extent of the terror inspired by the earthquake can best be measured by the fact that although columns of smoke and fire, consuming homes and threatening to lay the city in ashes, were rising at several points, they were scarcely heeded. The roar of adjacent flames could even be heard by the vast concourse, but ears were strained to detect that more terrible roar that seemed to come from unknown depths beneath the ocean and the land, and to threaten a fate as awful and mysterious as itself. Even many of the white population could not help sharing in some degree the general belief among the negroes that the end of all things was at hand. The nervous shock sustained by all prepared the way for the wildest fears and conjectures. As in the instance of a bloody battle, those were the best off who were the most occupied.

Thousands, however, sat and waited in sickening apprehension, fearing some new horror with every passing moment. There was a sound of weeping throughout the square, while above this monotone rose groans, cries, hysterical screams, loud petitions for mercy, and snatches of hymns. The emotional negroes left no moments of silence. The majority of the white people had become comparatively calm. They talked in low tones, encouraging and soothing one another; the lips of even those who seldom looked heavenward now often moved in silent prayer; fathers, on whose brows rested a heavy load of care, tried to cheer their trembling families; and mothers clasped their sobbing children in their arms, with the feeling that even death should not part them.

Over all this array of pallid, haggard faces, shone the flames of the still unquenched conflagration.



CHAPTER XLIII

"THE TERROR BY NIGHT"

When Aun' Sheba saw that Mara, Mrs. Hunter, and Clancy were among friends, with a physician in attendance, she sat down by her daughter Sissy, and took little Vilet in her lap.

"I kin'er feel," she said, "dat ef de yearth is gwine ter swaller us, I'se like ter go down wid dis chile. Vilet shuah to go up ag'in, an' p'raps de Lawd ud say, 'You kin come too, Aun' Sheba.'"

The sound of her voice so far restored Uncle Sheba to his normal condition that he was able to creep on his hands and knees to a position just behind his wife, where he crouched as if she were a sort of general protection.

Vilet, roused at her grandmother's voice, looked around, and then asked in her plaintive voice, "Whar's daddy?"

"He's hep'n' put'n' out de fiahs, deah chile."

"My bref gittin' bery sho't, granny. I can't stay dis side ob de riber much longer; I wants ter see daddy 'fore I go."

"Po' chile and po' Kern," groaned Aun' Sheba. "We doesn't know whar he be, an' I'se 'feerd he couldn't lebe off puttin' out de fiahs."

From time to time Vilet wailed, "Daddy, come, come quick. I'se gwine fas, an' I wants to see you onst mo'."

Captain Bodine heard the cry, and, having rested himself a little, came to Aun' Sheba and asked, "Do you know where Kern is?"

"I doan, Marse Cap'n, but he mought be at dis nighest fiah."

"I'll see," said the veteran, halting away with the feeling that he must do something to divert his torturing thoughts.

Watson was soon pointed out to him, where with stern and quiet face he was carrying out his orders. When told that Vilet was near and calling for him, the veins came out on his forehead, and for a moment he was irresolute. Then he cried, "No, sah, I can't go. Fo' de Lawd, ef she die an' we all die I won't lebe my duty."

"You're a man," said Bodine, clapping him on the shoulder, "I will arrange this."

He went direct to Kern's superior officer and briefly told him the circumstances, then added, "I know these people. Watson deserves consideration. I will take his place. I can hold the hose as well as he, and will stand as near the fire as he does if you will order him to go to his dying child for a few minutes."

"In that case I can comply," said the officer. "Watson has behaved splendidly, and he'll come back soon."

The first thing Kern knew, the hose was taken from his hand, and he ordered to go and return within ten minutes. He hesitated. "Obey orders," was the stern command. Then he rushed away.

The plaintive cry, "Daddy, daddy," guided him, and Vilet was in his arms.

"Chile, deah chile!" was all he could say as he kissed the thin face again and again.

"Now my min's at res'," said the little girl, with a sigh of ineffable content. "You 'member, daddy—you says—'Yes, Vilet.'—I'se a-goin', daddy. De angels—is all ready—to tote me to Heben. I kin jes' heah dere wings—rustlin' roun' me. I was jes' waitin'—an' hol'n back—ter see you onst mo'. Good-by, moder—granny."

Then she feebly wound her little arms about Kern's neck and whispered, "Good-by, daddy, fer jes' a lil while. I'se wait neah de gate fer you shuah."

It would seem that she put all her remaining strength into this effort, for her head fell over on his shoulder; she quivered a moment, then was still. Kern could not repress one deep groan. He looked for a moment of agony into his child's face, kissed it, then placing her in Ann' Sheba's lap, departed as swiftly as he came. Sissy was so overcome as to be helpless.

"Your time wasn't up," said the veteran.

"Her time was up, Cap'n Bodine," Kern managed to reply, his face rigid with repressed emotion. "She die in my arms. God bless yo' fer you'se feelins fer a po' man."

"Watson, I do feel for you and with you. Our hearts are all breaking to-night. Take care of yourself. You have a wife and children still to live for." And Bodine halted back and seated himself by his cousin.

Alas! for thousands the words of Bodine were only too true. As they contemplated what had happened and what might occur at any moment, they felt that heavy, crushing pain, unlike all others, which gathers at the heart, overwhelming the spirit and threatening physical dissolution at one and the same time.

Yet such is the power of human affection and Christian faith, that they won many triumphs, even during that night of horrors. In Ella and the dying woman, whose head she pillowed on her breast, were examples of both. The girl's heart was indeed pitiful and sympathetic, and the poor creature knew that it was, for in broken, gasping words she told her brief, pathetic story, so like that of many other women in the South. Once she was a happy girl at home on a small plantation, but father, brothers, and lover had all perished in the war. Home and mother had since been lost and she was fighting out life's long, weary battle when this final disaster brought the end. "Yes, kind lady, I reckon I'm dying: I hope so. I couldn't take care of myself any longer, and I'd rather join those who have gone on before me than trust to the charity of this world. I am very weary, very heavy laden, and I'd rather go to Him who said, 'Come to Me.' If you can stay with me a little longer—I don't fear, but it's very sweet to have human kindness and company down into the dark valley."

Her words proved true. She evidently perished from internal injuries, for she soon ceased to gasp, and her head lay still against the bosom of the sobbing girl.

Dr. Devoe was present during the last moments, then gently relieved Ella from her lifeless burden, and supported her to her father on whose shoulder she shed those natural tears which soon bring relief to the hearts of the young. George Houghton and Jube carried the body to the place set apart for the dead. Then George returned to his father's side, but looked wistfully at Ella with an unspeakable longing to comfort her.

"I don't wonder, my boy," said Mr. Houghton, interpreting his thoughts. "Go and speak to her."

George approached timidly, and said, "Miss Bodine."

She started, raised her head, and began to wipe her eyes.

"I—I—Well, I don't know what to say to make you understand how my father and I have sympathized with your brave—Well, you were so kind and patient with that poor woman. I wish I could do something for you, and I will," and he hastened away.

She called, "I don't need anything, Mr. Houghton. Indeed I do not. It would only distress me—" But he was out of hearing. "Oh," she moaned again on her father's shoulder, "why will he take risks?"

It was evident that Mr. Houghton shared her anxiety, for he divined his son's purpose, and looked with troubled face for his return. He soon came back carrying another mattress, pillows and blankets. Sam, compelled to leave the horses, followed with a basket of provisions. Ella was clothed in little besides a light wrapper, and had shivered more than once in the night air. George tried to induce her and Mrs. Bodine to accept of the mattress, but they asked as a favor that it might be placed under Mrs. Hunter. He readily complied, saying he would get another for them.

At this moment came the ominous groan of the severe shock which occurred at about half-past two o'clock Wednesday morning. To the terrified people it was like the growl of some ravening beast rushing upon them, and a long wailing cry blended with the horrible roar as it swept under and over them, then died away in the northwest.

"Oh, Mr. Houghton," sobbed Ella, when her voice could be heard, "please don't go away—please don't go near a building again."

"George," added his father, almost sternly, "not with my consent will you leave me again till we learn more definitely what our fate is to be. If you were in the house when this shock occurred, you might have perished. It is no longer a question of more or less comfort."

"I reckon not," said Mrs. Bodine. "It's a question of ever seeing the sun rise again. We may as well speak out what is in our minds, and get ready for a city not made with hands."

"I wish we were all as ready to go as you are, Cousin Sophy," Ella whispered.

"Well, my dear, I've more property in that city than in this wrecked town, and 'where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'" Then she added, "You'll be spared, dear child. You and your knight will see many happy years. God bless you both."

"Oh, cousin! it is such a comfort, even at this awful time, to see him, to know he is near, to think he came for—for us!"

"For you, dear little goose. He'd face earthquakes, volcanoes, tornadoes, cyclones, and even his father before this well-deserved shaking converted him, for your sake."

"Cousin," whispered the girl, "I'm so glad. Is it wrong to be glad at such a time?"

"Wrong to be glad when God loves you and a good man loves you? I reckon not. All the quakes that ever shook this crazy old earth are bagatelles compared with such facts."

"Oh, cousin, you are such a tower of strength and comfort!"

"I'm a leaning tower," replied the old lady, whose vein of humor ran through all her thoughts, "but I'm leaning on what won't fail me. Nestle down by my side, dear child. You are shivering, and this extra blanket will do us both good. Now be comfortable, and believe with me that nothing in the universe can or will harm you."

"Poor Mara!" Ella sighed.

"Yes, I've been watching and grieving over her. I never saw any face more expressive of suffering than hers. I don't understand her unless—unless—well, time will show, that is, if there is much more time for me."

"Oh, cousin, we never could spare you!"

"That is what I used to think about my husband, but he always went when sailing orders came, and I survived. I feel to-night as if be and the boys were just waiting off shore, if this tossing and pitching earth can be called shore, for me to join them."

Captain Bodine sat through the shock without moving a muscle. His eyes rested wistfully on Mara. With an indescribable pang he saw that in the supreme moment of general terror her eyes turned not to him but to Clancy, and that she made a half involuntary movement as if to go to him. The glance, the act, combined with what had gone before, were too significant, and Bodine buried his face in his hands that she might not see his trouble. She knew it all the more surely, yet felt how powerless she was to console him.

"Oh, my blind, blind folly!" she groaned inwardly. "If I had been true to my heart, I might be caring for Owen instead of that woman who left him to die, and my father's friend acting like a father toward us both. I wanted to be so heroic and self-sacrificing, and I've only sacrificed those I love most."

Mrs. Hunter was so fully under the influence of anodynes as not to be cognizant of what was taking place, and Bodine, soldier-like, was not long in reaching his decision. Rising, he went aside with Dr. Devoe, and said, "Miss Wallingford is keeping up from the sheer force of will. Nothing but your command can induce her to yield and take such rest as can be obtained here. I do not think you can interpose too soon. I will watch Mrs. Hunter."

Mara had indeed reached the limit of endurance, and the physician quickly detected the fact. He took her by the hand and arm, and gently raised her to her feet as he said, "I am autocrat here. Even kings and generals must obey their doctor. So I shall ask no permission to place you beside Mrs. Bodine. She and rest can do you more good than I can. Captain Bodine and I will look after Mrs. Hunter."

Mara gave the veteran a grateful glance and yielded. Then she buried her face in Mrs. Bodine's neck, and was silent until she slept from physical exhaustion.

Miss Ainsley, with multitudes of others, yielded to her terror at the passing of the midnight earthquake. She shrieked and half rose in her wild impulse to fly. Then apparently forgetting Clancy she piteously begged Dr. Devoe to give her something that would certainly bring oblivion for a few hours at least. He good-naturedly complied. When the opiate began to take effect she was placed on the mattress beside Mrs. Hunter, and was soon in stupor. Clancy had so far recovered that he was able to sit up, and he felt that he should watch beside the girl who he believed had been so devoted to him in his unconsciousness.

Dr. Devoe in excuse for Miss Ainsley said, "We can't make too much allowance to-night for every one. Many strong men are utterly overcome and nauseated by these, shocks. No wonder women cannot face them."

"I think Miss Ainsley has borne up wonderfully," Clancy replied.

"Oh, yes, as well as the average. It's a question of nerves with the majority."

Clancy sat down and looked with pity at the beautiful face and dishevelled hair. "Poor girl!" he thought, "she did her best by me. Indeed, I had scarcely thought her capable of such devotion. By all that's honorable I'm bound to her now. Well, eventually I can give her a truer affection, for she has ceased to be merely a part of my ambitious scheme. By our own acts Mara and I are separated, and, however deep our grief may be, it must be hidden from all."

Thus he and Captain Bodine sat on either side of the pallet, each immersed in painful thought, oblivious of the strange scenes enacted all around them. They did not feel then that they could speak to each other.

The veteran was perplexed, and his proud spirit also labored under a deep sense of wrong. It was evident that he had been deceived by Mara, and that all along she had loved the man so near to him, loved him better than her own life. Why had she concealed the fact? Why had she been so cold and harsh toward Clancy himself until the awful events of the night and peril to life had overpowered her reserve and revealed her heart? He could think of no other explanation than that afforded by the unconscious girl over whom Clancy watched. He had heard of the young man's devotion to Miss Ainsley, and, from what he had seen, believed that they were affianced. He was too just and large in his judgment to think Mara's course toward him was due to pique and wounded pride, and he was not long in arriving at a very fair explanation of her motives and action. Keenly intelligent and mature in years he was beyond the period of passionate and inconsiderate resentment. Moreover his love for the orphan girl was so true, and the memory of her father and mother so dear to him, that he was able to rise nobly above mere self, and resolve to become the most loyal of friends, a protector against her very self. "Now I think of it," he mused, "she has never said she loved me, although she permitted me to think she did. Even when I declared my love she only said, 'Life offers me nothing better than to be your wife.' That no doubt was true as she meant it, for she then thought this man here was lost to her. She did not welcome my love when she first recognized it, but soon her spirit of self-sacrifice came in, and she reasoned that since she could not be happy in herself, she would make me happy. From the very first I believed that this spirit could lead her to deception for the sake of others, and I have not been sufficiently on my guard against it. Yet how could I suspect this Clancy, whom she so repelled and contemned, and who was devoting himself to another woman? Perhaps she partially deceived herself as well as me. The affection probably struck root years since when she and Clancy were friends. He outgrew it; she has not, as she has learned to night, if not before. He went to her aid because he was friendly in spite of her apparent bitterness toward him, which perhaps he understood better than I. Possibly Mrs. Hunter may have broken their relations, for there is no doubt about her feelings. Well, time must unravel the snarl. It would now seem that he is devoted to this girl here, and she to him as far as she can be to any one. What he will think when he learns that she ran shrieking away and left him, while Mara, reckless of life itself, stood by him to the last, I cannot know. If he loves her he will forgive her, for no man can blame a woman for succumbing to the terror of this night. Possibly at some distant day Mara may still think that life offers her nothing better than to be my wife; but she shall be free, free as air, and know, too, that I know all."

Thus Bodine communed with himself after a habit learned long ago in the presence of danger.

Clancy also was confronted by possible results of his action, the fear of which enabled his cool, resolute nature to rise above all other fear. He resolved to go at once to Aun' Sheba, and caution her against speaking of the scenes in which she, with Mara, and himself had taken part.



CHAPTER XLIV

HOPE TURNED INTO DREAD

Clancy was guided by the voice of Aun' Sheba, the wailing of Sissy, and the groans and unearthly sounds to which Uncle Sheba was giving utterance. The adjacent fire was so far subdued that only a red glow in the sky above marked the spot. The stars shone in calm, mocking serenity on the wide scene of human distress and fear. "Alas," he thought, "what atoms we are; and what an atom is this earth itself! It would seem that faith is the simplest, yet mightiest effort of the mind at such a time," and he paused till Aun' Sheba should be more free to listen to him.

Mr. Birdsall, with his youngest child in his arms, had been exhorting those of his people near him, but his words had been of little effect in quieting Sissy and Uncle Sheba. The latter had concluded that he would not wait till the coming winter before again "'speriencin 'ligion," and his uncouth appeals to Heaven were but the abject expression of animal fear. Aun' Sheba had lost her patience with both him and her daughter, and was expostulating vigorously. "I'se asham on you, Sissy," she said. "Wot good de 'ligion you 'fess do you, I'd like ter know? Ain't Vilet in Hebin? Ain't you got de bes husban bawn? Ain't de oder chil'n heah? Now ef you'se 'ligion any good 'tall, be quiet an tankful dat you bettah off dan hun'erds. Unc., you kin pray all you wants, but ef you specs de Lawd ter listen you'se got ter pray like a man an not like a hog dat wants his dinnah. You'se 'sturbin everybody wuss dan you did wen you got sot on. I won hab it said my folks made a rumpus in dis time ob trouble. You'se got ter min me, Mr. Buggone, or I'se hab you took out de squar."

Uncle Sheba was never so far gone in his fears but that he shrunk from facing anything worse, and so he subsided into low inarticulate groans. Sissy was not so tractable, for her weeping was largely nervous and hysterical. She had an affectionate emotional nature, but was far from being gifted with the strength of mind and character possessed by her mother and husband.

"Aun' Sheba," said Clancy kindly, "your daughter needs something to quiet her nerves. I will bring it to her." He soon returned with medicine from the doctor, and under its influence the bereaved mother became calmer and wept softly by her dead child.

Clancy drew Aun' Sheba a little apart so that others could not hear, even if any were disposed to listen at this time of intense preoccupation. "You have been a friend indeed to-night," he said. "I must ask another proof of your good-will. The earthquake has brought trouble enough, but I fear that Mara and I have brought greater trouble upon ourselves. Probably you've seen enough to explain what I mean."

"I'se seen a heap, Marse Clancy."

"Well, you are Mara's old nurse. She loves and trusts you. She is engaged to Captain Bodine."

"She ain't mar'ed to 'im."

"She feels herself bound, and has said that if I was a true Southern gentleman I would not interfere. This is bad enough, but there's worse still. I thought she was lost to me—you know about it, I reckon."

"Yes, I knows now. I was a blin ole fool an tink it was wuckin' so hard dat made her po'ly."

"Oh, we have both made such fatal mistakes! I, like a fool, when I believed she would never speak to me again, entangled myself also. Now, Aun' Sheba, what I wish is that you say nothing to any one of what you have seen and heard. We've got to do what's honorable at every cost to ourselves."

"Dus wot's hon'ble mean dat Missy Mara got ter mar'y Marse Bodine an you de limpsey-slimpsey one wot say you 'serted her?"

"Nothing else seems to be left for us."

"'Pears ter me, Marse Clancy, you an Missy Mara gittin orful muxed up in wot's hon'ble. I'se only got wot folks calls hoss-sense, but it's dead agin you bofe. Take you now. Fust you got ter tell de gal lies, den lies to her fader an de minister wot jines you, and de hull worl. Missy Mara ud hab ter lie like de debil, too, an you bofe go on lyin 'miscuously. Anyhow, you'se hab ter act out de lies ef you didn't say 'em. 'Ud dat be hon'ble wen all de time you'se yearnin fer each oder?"

"Oh, Aun' Sheba, it's hard enough without such words as yours!"

"Ob corse it's hard. It orter be, fer it's agin de Lawd an natur. Marse Clancy, took keer wot you do, an wot you let Missy Mara do. My 'sperience teach me a heap. S'pose I doan' know de dif'ence 'tween Unc. dar an a man like Kern? I was young an foolish once, an mar'ed Unc. kase he was good lookin den, an mo' kase he ax me. Well, I'se made de bes on it, an I'se gwine ter make de bes on it; but if de yearth crack right open heah, as like 'nuff 'twill 'fo' mawnin, I'd jump right down in de crack 'fo' I'd do it ober ag'in. You'se on de safe side ob de crack yit, so be keerful. I knows woman folks soon as I claps my eyes on dem. Miss Mara quar in her notions 'bout de Norf—she was brung up to 'em—but dere's nuff woman in my honey lam' to make a tousan ob dis yere limpsey-slimpsey one."

Clancy clinched his hands in mental distress as he listened to the hard sense and unerring judgment of the sagacious old woman.

"I'm in terrible perplexity," he said, "for there is so much truth in your words. How can I escape the consequences of my own acts? Think how Miss Ainsley stood by me in my unconsciousness! When I revived—"

"Dar now, Marse Clancy, you'se been fooled. She stood by hersef. De fac am, she didn't stan 'tall, but run like a deer, hollerin fer all she's wuth. Wen you swoonded, Missy Mara cotch you in her arms. I eben run away, an lef my honey lam' mysef, but I come back sudden, an dar she was a hol'n you head in her lap right uner a big bildin dat ud a squashed her. I drag you pass dat, an den Marse Bodine jes ordered me an Missy to go to de squar. He spoke stern an strong as if we his sogers. An Missy Mara look 'im in de eyes an say, you—dat's you, Marse Clancy—may be dead, or you may be dyin, an dat she can't leab you an she won leab you. She got de grit ob true lub, an dere'll neber be any runin away in her heart. Wot you an Marse Bodine gwine ter do 'bout sich lub as dat? 'Fo' de Lawd my honey lam' die ef you an Marse Bodine 'sist on bein so orful hon'ble. She ain't one dem kin' dat takes a husban like dey takes a breakfas kase its ready."

Clancy was so profoundly moved by what he heard that he turned away to hide his emotion. After a moment he said: "You have been true and faithful, Aun' Sheba. You won't be sorry. Please do as I have asked." And he hastened away.

"Reckon I put a spoke in dat hon'ble bizness," Aun' Sheba soliloquized. "Like 'nuff I put another in. Doan cotch me hep'n along any sich foolishness. I gibs no promise, an I'se gwine ter make my honey lam' happy spite hersef." Then she took one of her grandchildren, and soothed it to sleep.

The slow hours dragged wearily on; the majority of the white people quieted down to patient, yet fearful waiting; crying children, one after another, dropped off to sleep; parents and friends watched over them and one another, conversing in low tones or praying silently for the Divine mercy, never before felt to be so essential. The negroes were more demonstrative, and their loud prayers and singing of hymns continued without abatement or hindrance. The expressions of some were so extravagant and uncouth as to grate harshly on all natures possessing any refinement; but when such men as Mr. Birdsall exhorted or prayed, there were but few among the whites who did not listen reverently, and in their hearts acknowledge the substantial truth of the words spoken and their need of the petitions offered.

Clancy went back to his watch. Few men in the city were more troubled and perplexed than he, for he had not the calmness resulting from a definite purpose as was true of Bodine.

Unmovedly the two men remained at their posts of duty awaiting the day or what might happen before the dawn. George lay down beside his father, and soon slept from fatigue, while Mr. Houghton, now so softened and chastened, vowed to make him happy.

Ella watched her father in deep solicitude, feeling vaguely that his trouble was not caused wholly by the general reasons for distress. At last she stole to his side, and laid her head upon his shoulder. The act comforted and sustained him more than she knew at the time, for he was not a demonstrative man. He only kissed her tenderly and bade her return to her cousin, with whom she kept up a whispered and fragmentary conversation. Mrs. Willoughby sat beside her husband, her head pillowed against his breast as they waited for the day.

A breeze sprang up, and the freshness of the morning was in it. Would the sun ever rise again? Was not Nature so out of joint that nothing familiar could be looked for any more? The terrors of the long night inspired morbid thoughts, which come too readily in darkness.

At the appointed time, however, there was a glow in the east, which steadily deepened in color. Truly, to the weary, haggard, shivering, half-clad watchers, the sun was an angel of light that morning; and never did fire-worshippers greet his rise with a deeper feeling of gratitude and gladness.

There was a general stir in the strange bivouac, an increased murmur of voices. The hymns of the negroes gradually ceased; and people, singly or in groups, began to leave the square for their homes, in order to clothe themselves more fully, and to discover what was left to them in the general wreck.

There had been no shock since the convulsion at half-past two o'clock, the fact inspiring general confidence that the worst was over. Hope grew stronger with the blessed light, and fear vanished with the darkness.

Mr. Houghton touched his son, who immediately awoke, meditating deeds of hospitality. "Father," he said, "our house is near. Cannot I, with the aid of Jube and Sam, get our friends some breakfast?"

"Yes, George, and extend the invitation from me."

"Oh, father! I'm so grateful that you are giving me this chance to—to—"

"You shall have all the chance you wish. In fact, I'm rather inclined to see what I can do myself. I may need a good deal of nursing." And the old man's face was lighted up with a kindly smile, which made his son positively happy.

Approaching Bodine, he asked, "Do you think it will be safe for the invalids to leave the square?"

"I scarcely think so," was the reply. "At least, not until more time passes without disturbance. From what I've read of earthquakes, our houses may be unsafe for days to come."

"Well, the first thing to be done is to see that you all have some breakfast. Fortunately, our house is not far; and, although our women-servants have fled, I have two men who will stand by me. The fact is, my hunting expeditions have made me a fairly good cook myself. My father cordially extends the invitation that all my friends here breakfast with us."

"I will join in your labors, Houghton," said Clancy, promptly. "Having no home, I gratefully accept your father's invitation."

"We're all shipwrecked on a desert island," added Mrs. Bodine cheerily to George. "You appear to be one of the friendly natives, and I put myself under your protection."

"Our custom here is," replied the young fellow in like vein, "that, after we have taken salt together, we become fast friends."

"Bring on the salt, then," she answered laughing, while Ella's smile seemed to the young fellow more vivifying than the first level rays of the sun. Mara, Mrs. Hunter, and Miss Ainsley were still sleeping, as also was Dr. Devoe.

"Houghton," called Mr. Willoughby, "won't you enroll me as one of your cooks or waiters?"

"No," replied George, "I must leave you and Captain Bodine in charge of camp."

"Too many cooks spile de brof," said Aun' Sheba, rising from Mara's side where she had been watching for the last hour. "Marse Houghton, you bery fine cook fer de woods, I spec, but I reckon I kin gib a lil extra tech to de doin's."

"Ah, Aun' Sheba, if you'll come, you shall be chief cook, and I, for one, promise to obey. Mrs. Willoughby, I'm so very glad that I can now return a little of your kindness."

"I take back what I said about absolving you," she whispered.

"You'd better. If I don't make the most of my chance now my name is not George Houghton. Of course I shan't say anything while these troubles last. You understand, I don't wish anything to happen which would embarrass her, or make it hard to accept what I can do for her and hers; but when the right time comes," and he nodded significantly.

"You are on the right tack as you boatmen say," she whispered laughing.

"See here, Houghton," remarked jolly Mr. Willoughby, "earthquakes and secret conferences with my wife are more than a fellow can stand at one and the same time."

"You shall soon have consolation," said George, hastening away, followed by Clancy, Aun' Sheba, Jube, and Sam. When the last-named worthy appeared near Mr. Houghton's barn the horses whinnied and the two dogs barked joyously.

"Mr. Clancy," said George, handing him his pocket-book, "since you have kindly offered to aid, please take Jube and visit the nearest butcher's shop and bakery. I suggest that you lay in a large supply, for we don't know what may happen. Please get eggs, canned delicacies, anything you think best. Don't spare money. Help yourself, if owners are absent. I will honor all your I.O.U's."

"All right, Houghton; but remember that I'm an active partner in this catering business. Fortunately I don't need to go to the bank for money."

Aun' Sheba exclaimed over the evidences of disaster along the street, but when she saw what a wreck Mr. Houghton's massive portico had become she lifted her hands in dismay.

"That don't trouble me," said George, "since I'm not under it. I passed beneath a second or two before it fell."

"De Lawd be praised! 'Pears ter me He know wot He 'bout, an is gwine ter bring down pride ez well ez piazzers."

"It looks that way, Aun' Sheba. Here, Sam, make the kitchen fire before you do anything else. Now we must rummage and see what we can find."

Aun' Sheba took possession of the kitchen, and with broom, mop, and cloths, soon brought order out of chaos. Sam found that although the chimney had lost its top, it fortunately drew, and the fire in the range speedily proved all that could be desired. George ravaged the store-closet until Aun' Sheba said, "Nuff heah already ter feed de squar."

Then he went up and looked about the poor wrecked home, meanwhile setting Sam to dusting chairs and carrying them to the square. Then a table, crockery, knives, forks, spoons, napkins, etc., were despatched.

Clancy and Jube found that the proprietors of some of the shops were plucking up courage to enter them and resume trade, and so they eventually returned well laden with provisions. Then Jube was sent with wash-basins, water and towels for ablutions. Meantime George and Clancy took a hasty bath and exchanged their ruined clothing for clean apparel.

"Houghton, you are a godsend to us all," exclaimed his friend.

"I suppose the whole affair is a godsend," was the reply; "anyway, I'm getting my satisfaction out of it this morning."

As sprightly Mrs. Willoughby saw the applicances for their comfort following one after another she said to Ella, "We may as well make believe that it is a picnic."

Ella smiled and replied, "I'm better dressed for breakfast than you are, for I have on a wrapper, and you are in a low-necked evening costume."

"I feel as if I could eat a breakfast all the same. What creatures these mortals be! A little while ago I was in the depths of misery, and now I'm hungry and kind of happy."

"Oh, you are," said her husband, "when you may have to take in washing for a living, while I shovel brick and mortar."

"No, indeed," cried his wife, "I'll join the firm of Wallingford and Bodine, and you can help Aun' Sheba peddle cakes."

"That's right, children," said Mrs. Bodine, "that's the true brave Southern spirit. We are all born soldiers, seamen rather, since the land has been as freakish as the waves. Now mind, I'll send the first one below who shows the white feather."

Mr. Houghton lay apart from this group; and, while he felt his isolation, knew that he was to blame for it. They also felt the awkwardness of their situation, not knowing how far he was willing or able to converse with them. Mr. Willoughby was about to break the ice, but Ella forestalled him. "Mr. Houghton," she said, timidly approaching, "is there anything we can do for you? We are all so grateful."

"Yes, Miss Bodine. Forget and forgive."

"There seems very little now to forgive, and we do not wish to forget your kindness."

"Good Lor!" whispered Mrs. Bodine to Mrs. Willoughby, "I couldn't have turned a neater sentence myself."

"Well, Miss Bodine," resumed Mr. Houghton, "I suppose we shall have to let bygones be bygones. Now that sunshine and brightness have come, we should not recall anything painful. I trust that the worst is over, but our courage may yet be sorely tried. I will esteem it a very great favor if you and your friends will accept without reluctance what my son can do for your comfort."

Ella could not repress a little laugh of pleasure as she replied, "It is too late now to affect any reluctance. We owe him so much that we might as well owe him more." Then, ever practical, she arranged a screen to shade his face from the sun's rays.

Mr. Willoughby now came up and spoke in a friendly way of the probable effects of the disaster upon the city, and so the touch of mutual kindness began to make them kin.

Mrs. Hunter commenced to moan and toss, and this awakened Miss Ainsley, who looked around wonderingly. Mrs. Willoughby in low tones recalled what had happened, and explained the present aspect of affairs. Mrs. Bodine performed the same office for Mara, who also had been aroused by the voices near. The girl's habit of self-control served her in good stead, and she immediately rose, gave her hand to Bodine in greeting, and then knelt beside her aunt. Seeing Mara so near, Miss Ainsley quickly rose also, and moved away in instinctive antipathy.

Mrs. Hunter was feverish and evidently very ill. She was unable to comprehend what was taking place, but recognized Mara, whose soothing touch and words alone had the power of quieting her.

Ella bathed Mrs. Bodine's face and hands, and enabled her to make "the ghost of a toilet," as the old lady said. Then Ella whispered, "I wish I could do as much for Mr. Houghton."

"I dare you to do it," said Mrs. Bodine, with a mirthful gleam in her eyes.

Ella caught her spirit, and without hesitation, although blushing like a rose, went to Mr. Houghton, and asked, "Will you please let me bathe your hands and face also?"

"Why, Miss Bodine, I should not expect such kindness from you. I can wait till my son returns."

"He is doing so much that he will be tired. It would give me pleasure if you will permit it. In waiting on my cousin I've learned to be not a very awkward nurse."

"Well, Miss Bodine, I am learning that even earthquakes can bring pleasant compensations. You shall have your own way. Yes, you are a good nurse, and a brave and patient one. Your kindness to that poor creature who died in your arms touched my heart."

"And mine too, Mr. Houghton. She told me a very pitiful story."

"You shall tell it to me some time, my dear."

Her heart thrilled as he gently spoke these words, while George, striding up with a great platter of steak, almost dropped it as he saw the girl waiting on his father as if filial relations were already established. The old man enjoyed his look of pleased wonder, and, when he had a chance, whispered, "I'm getting ahead of you, my boy, I don't want your clumsy hands or Jube's around me any more." Mrs. Bodine put her head under the blanket and shook with silent laughter.

Ella was very shy of the young man, however. He could not catch her eye, nor get a chance to speak to her except in the presence of her father, Mrs. Bodine, or some one else. But he possessed his soul in patience, and did his best to be a genial host. Clancy, Jube, and Sam followed with the coffee and various comestibles. Miss Ainsley was a little effusive in her greeting of the man whom she had deserted in the street, and again had left to pass the night as he could, while she sought oblivion. His response was grave, kind, yet not altogether reassuring. He certainly indulged in no lover-like glances; and he went direct to Mara, and inquired gently after Mrs. Hunter. She replied quietly, without looking up. It was evident that the sound of his voice distressed the injured woman, who was barely conscious enough to have vague memories of the past.

Weary Dr. Devoe was wakened, while George gave Mrs. Willoughby his arm, and gallantly placed her behind the coffee-urn. Even Captain Bodine assumed a measure of cheerfulness during breakfast. When newsboys came galloping up with the morning paper, Mr. Willoughby rose and waved his hat, joining in the general hurrah which rose from all parts of the square. Every one warmly appreciated the heroism displayed in gathering news and printing a journal during the past night. Next to the vivifying light and the apparent cessation of the shocks, nothing did more to restore confidence than the appearance of the familiar paper.

"Old Charleston is alive yet," cried Mr. Willoughby; "and if the rest of us have half the pluck shown in that printing-house, we'll soon restore everything."

"Give me a paper," said Mrs. Bodine. "I'd rather have it than my breakfast."

"You shall have both," replied Ella, bringing a little tray to her side.

"Ah, Cousin Hugh, you veterans never did anything braver. Own up."

"I do, most sincerely and heartily."

Clancy read the journal aloud; and the coffee grew cold as all listened breathlessly to a chapter in the city's history never to be forgotten. Mr. Houghton was so absorbed that he suddenly became conscious that Ella was beside him with the daintiest of breakfasts. "You are spoiling me for any other nurse," he said.

"It is a relief at such a time to care for those who are ill and feeble," she replied gently. "If we have to stay here, I hope you will let me wait on you; but I trust that we can all soon go to our homes."

"I have my doubts. Now give me the pleasure of seeing you make a good meal."

"Mr. Clancy," cried Mrs. Willoughby, "in the general chaos women may obtain their just pre-eminence. I shall take the lead by ordering you to lay down that paper, so that you and others may have a hot breakfast."

Mara could be induced to take nothing beyond a cup of coffee. In spite of the sunshine and the general reaction into hopefulness and courage, she felt that black chaos was coming into her life. Her aunt and natural protector was very ill. After the events of the night she shrank inexpressibly from her former relations to Bodine. Indeed, it seemed impossible to continue them. Yet she asked herself again and again, "What else is there for me?" He was very kind, but the expression of his face was inscrutable. Moreover, there was Miss Ainsley acting as if Clancy were her own natural property, and he unable to dispute her claims. It appeared to her that poor stricken Mrs. Hunter was her only refuge, and she resolved to remain close by the invalid's side.

With the coming of the day Uncle Sheba's most poignant fears had gradually subsided. He kept his eyes on his wife, feeling that any good that he might hope for in this world would come through her. Indeed the impression was growing that the greatest immediate good to be obtained from any world was a breakfast; and when Aun' Sheba went with George to his home, Unc. also followed at a discreet distance. The result was that his wife again had to put him on a "'lowance," or little would have been left in Mr. Houghton's kitchen. He surreptitiously stuffed a few eatables into his pocket, and then went out to smoke his pipe.

Breakfast was at last over at the square. Mr. Willoughby rose and said to his wife, "I will go to the house, and get more suitable costumes for you and Carrie. Houghton will loan you a dressing-room at his house, for the streets can be scarcely suitable for you to traverse yet. I'll bring a carriage for you, however, as soon as it is possible. Serious danger is now over, I hope."

He had scarcely uttered the words when, as if in mockery, far in the southeast was heard again the sound which appalled the stoutest hearts. On it came, as if a lightning express-train were thundering down upon them. They saw the tops of distant trees nod and sway as if agitated by a gale; men, women, and children rushing again, with loud cries, from their homes; then it seemed as if some subterranean monster was tearing its way through the earth.

The moment the paralysis of terror passed, Miss Ainsley threw herself shrieking upon Clancy, who was compelled to support and soothe her. Mara covered her face with her hands, trembled violently, but uttered no sound. Ella could not repress a cry, as she hid her face upon her father's breast, a cry echoed by Mrs. Willoughby as she and her husband clung together. George knelt, holding the hand of his father, who looked at his son with the feeling that, if the end had come, his boy should be the last object on which his eyes rested. Mrs. Bodine was as composed as the veteran himself, and simply looked heavenward. There was something so terrific in the immeasurable power of the convulsion, so suggestive of immediate and awful death, that few indeed could maintain any degree of fortitude.

There was one, however, a few rods away, who scarcely noticed the shock. Kern Watson, at last released from duty, sat on the ground, with his face buried in the neck of his dead child. He did not raise his head, and trembled only as the quivering earth agitated his form.



CHAPTER XLV

A CITY ENCAMPING

The earthquake which occurred at 8:25 Wednesday morning had a disastrous effect, although it was not so severe as to injure materially the buildings already so shattered. It nipped hope and growing confidence in the bud. Multitudes had left the square for their homes, a large proportion with the immediate purpose of obtaining more clothing. Many would have been comparatively naked were it not for enveloping blankets and the loan of articles of apparel from the more fortunate. With the confidence which the morning and the continued quiet of the earth inspired there had been a general movement from the square. Some hastily dressed themselves, snatched up bedding and food, and returned to the open spaces immediately; others breakfasted at home, and some had the heart to begin the task of putting their houses in order. The shock drove them forth again with all their fears renewed and increased, for the homes, which in many cases had been a refuge for generations, were now looked upon as deathtraps, threatening to mangle and torture as well as destroy. The love of gain, the instinct to preserve property, was also obliterated. Merchants deserted their shops and warehouses. Banks were unopened, except for the gaps rent by the earthquake. The city was full of food, yet people went hungry, not daring to enter the places where it was stored. After a second and general flight to the square, the question in all hearts, "What next?" paralyzed with its dread suggestion.

The fear among the educated had become definite and rational. Not that they could explain the earthquake or its causes, but the sad experiences of other regions were known to them. These experiences, however, had varied so greatly in their horrors as to leave a wide margin of terrible possibilities. A tidal wave might roll in, for the city was scarcely more than nine feet above the sea. The earth might open in great and ingulfing fissures. The tremendous forces beneath them might seek a volcanic outlet. These were all dire thoughts, and were brought home to the consciousness the more vividly because the awful phenomena continued in the serene light of day. The nightmare aspect of what had occurred in darkness passed away, and the coolest and most learned found themselves confronted by dangers which they could not gauge or explain. Nor could the end be foreseen. If such considerations weighed down the spirits of the most intelligent men, imagine the fears of frail, nervous women, of the children, the wild panic of the superstitious negroes to whom science explained nothing. To their excited minds the earthquake was due directly either to the action of a malignant, personal devil, or of an angry God. While many of the poor ignorant creatures inevitably indulged in what were justly termed "religious orgies," the great majority were well behaved and patient, finding in their simple faith unspeakable comfort and support.

One fact, however, was clear to all: that the place of immediate and greatest danger was near or beneath anything which might be prostrated by the recurring shocks.

Another feature in Wednesday's experience was very depressing. The city was completely isolated from the rest of the world. All telegraph-wires were down, all railroads leading into the city had been rendered impassable. For many hours those without who had friends and relatives in Charleston were kept in dreadful suspense. From adjacent cities reports of the catastrophe were flashed continuously, but in regard to Charleston there was an ominous lack of information, and the fear was very general that the city by the sea had sunk beneath the waves.

Mr. Ainsley shared in this horrible dread. He telegraphed repeatedly from an inland town, and took the first train despatched toward the city. His daughter was right in believing that he would reach her at the earliest possible moment.

She was greatly demoralized by the shock which dissipated her impression of comparative safety; and when she realized that the city was utterly cut off from the outside world, that it was impossible to know when her father could arrive, she gave way to selfish fear and the deepest dejection. With embarrassing pertinacity she insisted that Clancy should remain near her. Even to the others it was apparent that fear, rather than affection, led her to desire his presence so earnestly. He had once wondered what kind of a woman was masked by her culture and a reserve so perfect that it had seemed frankness. The veneer now was stripped off. After her own fashion, she was almost as abject in her terror as Uncle Sheba, who had run howling back to the square, leaving the wife who had fed him to her fate. In her lack of honest sympathy for others, and indisposition to exert herself in their behalf, Miss Ainsley quite equalled the selfish old negro. The conventional world in which she had shone to such advantage had passed away. Her very perfection in form and feature made defects in character more glaring, for she was seen to be a fair yet broken promise.

How sweetly the noble qualities of Ella and Mara were revealed by comparison! They had been taught in the school of adversity. From childhood they had learned to think of others first rather than of themselves. Miss Ainsley would have been resplendent and at ease in a royal drawing-room; these two girls maintained womanly fortitude and gave themselves up to unselfish devotion in the presence of a mysterious power which would level an emperor's palace as readily as a negro's cabin.

Clancy saw the difference—no one more clearly—and his very soul recoiled from the woman he had purposed to marry. He patiently bore with her as long as he could after the shock, and then joined Mr. Willoughby, George, Bodine, and Dr. Devoe, who were consulting at Mr. Houghton's bedside. In his shame and distress he did not venture even to glance at Mara.

As the stress of the emergency increased Mr. Houghton's mind had grown clear and decided; his old resolute, business habits asserted themselves, and from his low couch he practically became the leader in their council. "From what we know of other and like disturbances," he said, "it is impossible to foresee when these shocks will end, or how soon a refuge can be sought in regions exempt from our dangers. Now that I am established in this square near my home I intend to remain here for the present. I cordially ask you all to share my fortunes. My son will spare no expense or effort, that can be made in safety, for our general comfort." Then he added before them all, "Captain Bodine, I have done you much wrong and discourtesy. I apologize. You have invalid and injured ladies in your charge. Their claims are sacred and imperative. I will esteem it a favor if you will permit my son to do what he can for their comfort and protection."

Bodine at once came forward, and giving Mr. Houghton his hand, replied, "You and your son are teaching me that I have done you both much greater wrong. I think I shall have to surrender as I did once before, but I am glad that it is to kindness rather than to force in this instance."

"Here's the true remedy for our differences," cried Mr. Willoughby. "Let the North and South get acquainted, and all will be well. But come, we must act, and act promptly."

"Yes," replied George, "for the square is filling up again, and we should keep as much space here as possible. I have a small tent which I will put up at once for Mrs. Bodine and Mrs. Hunter. Then I'll rig an awning for my father, and help the rest of you in whatever you decide upon."

"George," said his father, anxiously, "let your visits to the house be as brief as possible."

Clancy offered to assist George in meeting the immediate need of shelter from the sun, and Dr. Devoe gave the morning to the care of his many patients. Mr. Willoughby said that he must first go to his home for clothing and to look after matters, but that he would soon return. Bodine was asked to mount guard and prevent, as far as possible, the fugitives from encroaching on the needed space. This proved no easy task. Old Tobe, after having received some breakfast, maintained his watch over the medical stores, while Aun' Sheba, who had followed her husband as fast as her limited powers of travelling permitted, cleared away the remnants of the breakfast for her family, George assuring her that he would soon make all comfortable provision for her and them.

With Clancy and the two colored men he repaired to his home, as the wrecked venture to a ship which may break up at any moment, in order to secure what was absolutely essential. A tent was soon pitched for the invalids; a shelter of quilts suspended over and around his father, and a large carpet jerked from the floor formed an awning for the ladies. Part of this awning was partitioned off so as to give them all the privacy possible under the circumstances, and the remainder was inclosed on three sides, but left open toward the east.

"I'm not going to be sent to the hospital," said Mrs. Bodine. "I'd rather sit up and direct Ella how to transform this outer habitation into a drawing-room."

Then George brought her and his father easy-chairs. Rugs were spread on the grass, and the rude shelter became positively inviting. Ella and Mrs. Willoughby made themselves so useful that at last Miss Ainsley so far recovered from her panic as to assist. She detested Mara, and Mrs. Hunter's ghastly face and white hair embodied to her mind the terror of which all were in dread. The bright sunshine and homely work were suggestive of rural pleasures rather than of dire necessity, and helped, for the time, to retire the spectre of danger to the background. The coming and going of many acquaintances and friends also helped to rally her spirits, and incite her to the semblance of courage. Mrs. Willoughby, Mrs. Bodine, and Mara had stanch friends who sought them out the moment comparative safety had been secured for their nearer dependants. The demands of our story require nothing more than the brief statement that there was a general disposition on the part of the people to think of and care for all who had claims upon them. Even in the dreadful hours immediately following the first shock, much unselfish heroism was displayed; and during the weary days and nights which followed, men and women vied with each other in their attentions to those who most needed care.

Mrs. Bodine, Mrs. Willoughby, and the captain had several whispered conferences with those who felt surprise at associations with Mr. Houghton, and there was a quick, generous response to the old man's kindness. Some who would not have looked at him the day before now went and spoke to him gratefully and sympathetically, while for George only cordiality and admiration were manifested. He was not a little uneasy over the profuse attentions and offers of help which Ella received from several young men. To his jealous eyes she appeared unnecessarily gracious, and more ready to talk with them than with him; but he could not discover that she had an especial favorite among them. Indeed, she managed in their case as in his that Mrs. Willoughby, Miss Ainsley, or some one else should share in the conversation.

At last Bodine said to George, "I will now go to Mrs. Hunter's rooms and to Mrs. Bodine's residence, and obtain what is most essential. Can you spare one of your servants to carry what I cannot?"

"Certainly, and I will go with you myself. Clancy and Sam can continue operations here."

"George," said his father, "as soon as the absolute necessity for entering buildings is over, I wish you to keep away from them."

"Yes, father."

Ella added, "Remember, Mr. Houghton, that is a promise. Please let the words 'absolute necessity' have their full meaning;" and her face was so full of solicitude that he said, "I promise you also."

With a smile and flush she turned to her father whispering the tenderest cautions and emphasizing the truth that but few things were essential, some of which she mentioned. Jube had become like a faithful spaniel, the spirit of his young master reassuring him so as to feel his only safety lay in obedience.

As George and Bodine went down the street they were saddened by the evidences of disaster on every side. Even Meeting Street was still so obstructed as to be almost impassable for vehicles, and in some places the ruins were still being searched for the dead. When they reached Mrs. Hunter's home Bodine groaned inwardly, "How the poor girl must have suffered!" He added aloud, "The mental distress caused by my helplessness during the last few hours, Mr. Houghton, has been much harder to bear than the wound which cost me my leg and the suffering which followed."

"My dear captain," replied George, "your courage and clear head make you far less helpless than hundreds who only use their legs to run with. Let me enter this shell of a house alone."

"That would be a sad commentary on your remark."

They speedily obtained what they deemed essential, and turned off the gas, which was still burning. It was evident that no one had entered the house since its occupants had left it. Mrs. Bodine's residence was comparatively uninjured, and when leaving it the captain was able to lock the outer door.

On their way back to the square George stammered:

"Captain Bodine, it may be very bad taste to speak of such a matter now, but we do not know what an hour will bring forth. I would like to have some understanding with you. Beyond that there may be no need of anything further being said until all these troubles are over. I—I—well, can I venture to make my former request? Your daughter has my happiness wholly in her hands. I do not intend to embarrass her by a word until she is again in her own home, but I wish to know that my hopes and efforts to win her regard have your sanction."

"How does your father feel about this?" Bodine asked gravely.

"He has given his full and cordial approval. Now that he has seen Miss Bodine she has won him completely."

"Mr. Houghton, I owe to you her life which I value more than my own. You know we are lacking in everything except pride and good name."

"My dear sir," interrupted George earnestly, "God has endowed your daughter as man could not. You know I love and honor her for herself and always shall."

"You are right," said the father proudly, "and you are so truly a man, as well as a gentleman, that you estimate my penniless daughter at her intrinsic worth. As far as my approval and good wishes are concerned you have them."

Ella thought that George's face was wonderfully radiant when he appeared. As soon as she could get a word alone with her father, she asked, "What have you been saying to Mr. Houghton?"

"I have only answered his second request that he might pay you his addresses."

"Oh, papa! what a tantalizing answer! What did he say, and what did you say, word for word? Surely you didn't tell—"

"I only gave my consent, not yours. You are at perfect liberty to reject him," was the smiling reply.

"That is well as far as it goes, but I wish to know every word."

Her father's heart was too heavy to permit continuance in a playful vein, and he told her substantially what had been said. "Well," she concluded, with a complacent little nod, "I think I'll let him pay his addresses a while longer. The absurd fellow to go and idealize me so! Time will cure such folly, however. Papa, there's something troubling you besides the earthquake."

"Yes, Ella, and you must help me—you and Cousin Sophy." Then he told her how he thought matters stood between Mara and Clancy, checked her first indignant words, explained and insisted until she promised that she and Mrs. Bodine would shield Mara, and act as if she were as free as she had ever been. "It will all come about yet, papa," Ella whispered, "for Mr. Clancy has evidently committed himself to Miss Ainsley, although now I reckon he regrets it."

"Well, Ella dear, redouble your kindness and gentleness to Mara, and let matters over which we have no control take their course."

Clancy had not been idle during the morning, finding in constant occupation, and even in the incurring of risks, a relief to his perturbed thoughts. He and Sam procured a small cooking-stove, and also set up the cross-sticks of a gypsy camp before the open side of the awning. Aun' Sheba was placed in charge of the provisions, a responsibility in which Uncle Sheba wished to share, but she said severely, "Mr. Buggone, you'se dun git yer lowance wid Sissy an' de chil'n."

Mr. Willoughby at last returned on an express-wagon, well loaded with articles which would add much comfort in the enforced picnic. His face was sad and troubled as he greeted his wife.

"Oh, Jennie," he said, "our pretty home is such a wreck!"

"No matter, Hal, since you are safe and sound," was her cheery reply. "Come, girls, we can now dress for dinner. I feel like a fool in this light silk."

They all eventually reappeared in costumes more suitable for camping.

Mrs. Bodine was also enabled to exchange her blanket wrapper for the one she was accustomed to wear at home. With almost the zest of a girl she appreciated the picturesque elements of their experiences; and her high spirits and courage were infectious. With the aid of Sam and Jube, Aunt Sheba entered vigorously on preparations for dinner; a breeze with passing clouds tempered the sun's hot rays; and hope again began to cheer as time passed without further disturbance.



CHAPTER XLVI

"ON JORDAN'S BANKS WE STAND"

Aunt Sheba had succeeded fairly well with the dinner, considering the materials and the appliances available. Not one, however, was disposed to epicurean fastidiousness. The situation was gravely discussed, and the experiences of friends related. Dr. Devoe gave cheering assurances that injury to life and limb had been far less than might have been expected. "The first shock could scarcely have come at a better time," he said. "If it had happened when the streets were full of people, one shudders to think of the number that would have been killed or maimed. The fact is, the great majority of casualties appear to have occurred as people were leaving their houses."

Mrs. Hunter received much attention from him, and she continued so ill that Mara did not leave her. Bodine became convinced that a chance to speak with Mara in private might not be obtained very speedily, and therefore, with kindly consideration for her feelings, resolved to write that afternoon. He had nothing at hand better than pencil and note-book. He wrote:

"MY DEAR MARA—You have so many sorrows and anxieties now that I cannot wait longer in my effort to relieve you of one of them. You should have been more frank with me; yet, so far from reproaching you, I only remember that you are the daughter of my dearest friend, and that you need me as protector and father rather than as lover. I appreciate your motive to sacrifice yourself for my sake. Perhaps you will remember that I have warned you against this noble impulse of self-sacrifice—a tendency, however, which may be carried much too far. You utterly misjudge me if you think I would consciously accept any such sacrifice on your part. As far as I am concerned you are free from any obligation whatever, except that of trusting me, and coming to me as Ella does, as nearly as you can. You need a stanch and faithful protector against yourself, and such will be HUGH BODINE."

Ella carried this missive into the little tent set apart for Mrs. Hunter. When Mara read the note she hid it in her bosom, and buried her face in her hands. Ella tried to soothe her, assuring her that she knew how it had all come about, and that it would make no difference in her love.

"Oh, Ella!" Mara sobbed, "my pride needed humbling, and I am overwhelmed in very truth. I thought I was superior to you, and that my course was so heroic. The result is I have wronged and made unhappy your father, the man I honor most in all the world. Oh, I feel now that it would have been better if I had been buried under the ruins."

"Mara," said Ella firmly, "this is a time when we must make the best of everything—when we should not waste our strength in grieving over what cannot be helped. Papa has explained everything to me, and you will only wound him further if you do not comply with his wishes. He is very resolute; and, in a matter of this kind, you could not move him a hair's-breadth. Please do just what he asks now, and let time make future duty clearer."

Bodine was not astray in thinking that his note would relieve Mara's mind. Sad and humiliated as she was, his words had taken her from a false position, and would enable her to give him the filial love and homage with which her heart overflowed. Even if Clancy escaped from his entanglement, which she much doubted, she felt that both should pay the penalty of their errors in long probation.

As the afternoon wore away Mrs. Willoughby and Mrs. Bodine took some much-needed rest. Clancy went down town to look after his own affairs. Mr. Houghton had a consultation with his confidential man of business, at which George was present. Then the young fellow busied himself in perfecting the camp appointments and securing more provisions.

Kern Watson and his family, Aun' Sheba and her husband, with old Tobe and a few friends and neighbors, knelt around the remains of little Vilet as Mr. Birdsall offered a prayer. Bodine, Ella, and George, with his two servants, were also present. Then the minister and a few others helped the stricken father to bury his child. After the brief service the captain told Ella that she must go and rest till he called her.

George ventured to walk back with the tearful girl and to say, "Miss Bodine, you seem to have a hand to help and a heart to feel with every one."

"I should be callous indeed," she replied, "if I did not grieve at the death of that little girl. She aided in my effort to earn a livelihood. I saw her daily, and no one could help becoming fond of her, she was so good, and gentle, and quiet. Her poor father—how I pity him! The mute anguish in his face was overpowering. He is the most quiet, but he grieves the most, and will never get over it."

"I think you are right, Miss Bodine. I don't believe your intuitions would often lead you astray."

"I am very matter-of-fact," Ella replied.

"If I admit that, I must also add that one would have to do his level best to furnish the kind of facts you would approve of."

"And I must also add, Mr. Houghton, that you are furnishing them in plenty. I can never try to thank you, for I shouldn't know where to begin, or when to leave off."

"Please leave off now. Oh, Miss Bodine! I am so grateful for your kindness to my father, and he is just as pleased as I am."

"Ah! I've at last caught you in a bit of selfishness," she said with a piquant smile. "You would keep the privilege of thanking people while denying it to me;" and she vanished before he could reply.

"Oh!" he groaned inwardly, "if any of these Southern fellows carry her off, I'm done for."

Miss Ainsley spent a very wretched afternoon. Clancy was away, Mrs. Willoughby worn out, and she was left chiefly to her own resources, which were meagre indeed under the circumstances. Instead of forgetting self in behalf of those less fortunate, she brooded over what she deemed neglect. Mr. Willoughby talked to her for a time after dinner, and then busied himself in helping others provide shelter against the coming night; loaning here and there some of the articles which he had brought from his home. Throughout the day multitudes had been making preparations to spend the night in the squares, vacant lots, and in spacious yards. Few had been so forehanded as George Houghton, who had the advantage of abundant means, and good, fearless help in his efforts. By this time, however, the square was well covered by almost every variety of hastily improvised shelters, and the rays of the late afternoon sun brought out rainbow hues, strange and picturesque effects, so diverse were the materials employed and the ingenuity in construction which had been exercised.

Clancy had been almost reckless in his disposition to enter buildings, a risk which few others would incur on that day. He returned after four o'clock with a large supply of provisions, which he believed might be difficult to obtain should the shocks continue with greater violence. So far from observing that he was pale from exhaustion, Miss Ainsley was inclined to be reproachful that he had remained away so long. He listened wearily for a time, then answered, "I did not think that I could be especially useful here. Men, like soldiers, must do what must be done. I have taken pains to learn in your behalf that telegraphic and railroad communication will soon be re-established, and I have arranged, as soon as a despatch can be sent, to have one forwarded to your father's last address, assuring him that you are safe."

"My father is not at the place of his last address. If he is alive, he is trying to reach me, and he will not leave me till he has taken me utterly away from all this horror and danger. I hope you are ready to leave Charleston now."

"Leave my native city in its present plight! Why, Miss Ainsley, that would be almost like running away and leaving my mother."

"Are brick and mortar more to you than I am?"

"Bricks and mortar do not make Charleston, but the people with whom I have always lived. I will certainly take you to a place of safety, if your father cannot; but my duty is here. I would not only lose the respect of every one, but also my own self-respect, if I did not cast in my lot with this people until every vestige of ruin has disappeared."

"I'm sure I never wish to see the place again," she replied sullenly.

"It would be unjust for me to expect that you should feel as I do about it; but I am a citizen, and you yourself would eventually despise me were I not faithful to my obligations."

This method of putting the case silenced her for the time. She knew that he had ascribed to her a higher conception of duty than she possessed, and she believed that he was also aware of the fact. Since she had gone so far with him she now wished him to be a blind, unquestioning lover, wholly devoted and ready to fly with her at the first opportunity. The very qualities which they had mutually admired were now seen on their seamy side. Her cosmopolitan spirit which led her to sigh, "Anywhere so it be not Charleston," was now at war with his feeling of almost passionate commiseration for his stricken birthplace; while she in turn found his unyielding nature and keen perceptions which had afforded such pleasure in overcoming and meeting were now not at all to her wishes. She had yielded to him as never before to any one, and was intensely chagrined that he was not wholly subservient to her. If he should not become so she could never think of him without humiliation. He had seen her undisguised in all her weakness. She had thrown herself into his arms and implored his protection almost as unreservedly as Mrs. Willoughby had clung to her husband. She had also left him when he was helpless, and again when he was ill and weak. What she required now, therefore, was a blind idolatry; and so many had offered this that she felt entitled to it, even though there should be no such devotion on her part. If, in any sense, he should be critic as well as lover, he could make her exceedingly uncomfortable; and she had a growing perception that he was comparing her with others, that there was a lack of warmth in his words and manner, which even the circumstances could not extenuate. She resolved, therefore, to teach him that she would tolerate nothing halfway in his conduct. She was sitting on a chair while he reclined at her feet, and she determined that he should be at her feet in a sense which had large meanings to her. So she rose and said coldly, "Mr. Clancy, you seem to have so many obligations that I scarcely know where I come in."

Then she went toward the awning, intending to withdraw herself from his society until he should become sufficiently humble. He rose in strong irritation, too weary even to be patient. At this instant the shock which occurred at 5.16 passed over the city. In a second all her purposes vanished; her abject terror returned, and she threw herself on his breast, and sobbing, buried her face on his shoulder. Mrs. Willoughby also fled to her husband. As Mrs. Hunter had seemed quieter Aun' Sheba had been watching in the place of Mara, who had sought a little rest beneath the awning. She now came hastily out, but Clancy would not encounter her eyes. Indeed, his false position overwhelmed him with increasing shame and confusion. He resolved in a sort of desperation to meet Miss Ainsley's requirements as far as possible until she was safe in her father's hands, and then to become free. If he had known how Mara's position enabled her to interpret his own he would have been more resigned.

The shock which occurred so late in the day was a sad preparation for the night, to which all looked forward with unspeakable dread. Such little confidence or cheerfulness as had been maintained was dissipated; weariness and deferred relief increased the general dejection; only the bravest could maintain their fortitude.