August 16th.

They picked her up, poor Vere! the man who loved her, and the servants who had known her since she was a child; picked her up and laid her on a board which did duty for a stretcher, rolled up a pillow for her head, and drew her golden hair back from her face. Mr Carstairs took off his coat and laid it over her as she lay. His face was as white as hers, and all drawn with pain, while hers was quite still and quiet. So still! I was afraid to look at her, or to ask any questions.

Will put me down in a corner, and I sat there trembling and sick at heart, watching the little procession go round the corner of the house. I thought they had forgotten me, and I didn’t care. I was past caring! The pain and the shock and excitement were making me quite faint and rambly in the head, when someone spoke to me suddenly, and put an arm round my neck.

“It’s all over, darling! We have come to take you home. All your troubles are over now,” said a soft voice, and I looked up and saw a face looking down at me inside a close-fitting hood. For a moment I did not recognise her; I thought it was a nun or someone like that sprung out of a hazy dream, but when she smiled I knew it was Rachel, and somehow I began to cry at once, not because I was sorry, but because now that she was there I could afford to give way. She would look after Vere.

“Yes, cry, dear, it will do you good; but you mustn’t stay here any longer. We have brought a chair, and are going to put you in it, and carry you home to the Grange. We are your nearest neighbours, so you must give us the pleasure of looking after you for a time. They are taking your sister on ahead, and a man has ridden off for a doctor. He will look after that poor foot of yours presently. I am afraid it will be painful for you to be moved, but we will be very careful. The servants are preparing rooms in case they are needed. You shall get straight to bed.”

“And mother and father?”

“Your mother was taken to the Lodge. She is well, but very exhausted. They want to keep her quiet to-night. Your father knows you are safe. He is very thankful, but he will not leave his post until the servants are safe. Now here is the chair, and here are Will and the coach-man waiting to carry you. Are you ready to be moved?”

I set my teeth and said “Yes,” and they hoisted me up and carried me down the path after that other dreadful procession. Oh, my foot! I never knew what pain was like before that. How do people go on bearing it day after day, week after week, year after year? I couldn’t! I should go mad. I would have shrieked then, but my pride wouldn’t let me before Will and Rachel, when they kept praising me, and saying how brave I was.

I was carried straight to a room and put to bed. Rachel bathed and bandaged my ankle, and then hurried away, and no one came near me for an age. I knew why. They were all with Vere; my ankle was a trifle compared with her injuries. When at last the doctor did appear, he could tell me very little about her. The great thing was to keep her quiet until the next day, when he would be able to make an examination. I summoned courage to ask if she were in danger, and he answered me rather strangely—

“In danger—of death, do you mean? Certainly not, so far as I can tell.”

What other danger could there be? I lay and pondered over it all through that hot, aching night; but I have learnt since then that there are many things which may seem, oh, far, far harder than death to a young, beautiful girl. I have never had a great dread of death, I am thankful to say. Why should one fear it? If you really and truly are a Christian, and believe what you pretend, it’s unreasonable to dread going to a life which is a thousand times better and happier; and as for dying itself, I’ve talked to hospital nurses when I was ill at school, and they say that most people know nothing about it, but are only very, very tired, and fall asleep. Of course, there are exceptions. It would have been dreadful to have been burnt alive!

I did sleep towards morning, and it was so odd waking up in that strange room, which I had hardly noticed in the pain and confusion of the night before. I smiled a little even then as I looked round. It was so Racheley! Lots of nice things badly arranged, so different from my dear little room! Oh, my dear little room; should I ever, ever see it again? Someone was sitting behind the curtains, and as I moved he bent forward and took hold of my hand. It was father, looking so white and old that the tears came to my eyes to see him; but he was alive and safe, that was the great thing, and able to tell me that all the servants had been saved, and to give a good report of mother.

“Very weak and shaken, but nothing more than that, thank God! Good old Mrs Rogers is very happy helping Terese to nurse her. She sent you her love.”

“And, oh, father, the house, the dear old home? Is it quite ruined, or did you manage to put out the fire before it went too far? What happened after we left?”

His face set, but he said calmly—

“The lower rooms are more or less destroyed, but the second storey is little injured, except by smoke and, of course, water. The engines worked well, and we had more help than we could use. The people turned out nobly. The home itself can be saved, Babs; it will take months to repair, but it can be done, and we shall be thankful to keep the old roof above our heads.”

“But it will never look the same. The ivy that has been growing for hundreds of years will be dead, and all the beautiful creepers! I can’t imagine ‘The Moat’ with bare walls. And inside—oh, poor father, all your treasures gone! The silver and the china, and the cases of curios, and the old family portraits! You were so proud of them. Doesn’t it break your heart to lose them all?”

“No,” he said quietly, “I cannot think of such things to-day. I am too filled with thankfulness that out of all that big household not a life has been lost, and that my three darlings are with me still. Those things you speak of are precious in their way, but I have no room for regret for them in my heart when a still greater treasure is in danger, Vere—”

“Oh, father, tell me about Vere! Tell me the truth. I am not a child, and I ought to know. How has she hurt herself?”

“Truthfully, dear, no one knows. She cannot move, and there is evi............