Mr James Auberly.
 
With a very stiff cravat, and a dreadfully stiff back, and a painfully stiff aspect, Mr James Auberly sat by the side of a couch and nursed his sick child.
 
Stiff and starched and stern though he was, Mr Auberly, had a soft point in his nature, and this point had been reached at last, for through all the stiffness and starch there shone on his countenance an expression of deep anxiety as he gazed at Loo’s emaciated form.
 
Mr Auberly performed the duties of a nurse awkwardly enough, not being accustomed to such work, but he did them with care and with an evident effort to please, which made a deep impression on the child’s heart.
 
“Dear papa,” she said, after he had given her a drink and arranged her coverings. “I want you to do me a favour.” She said this timidly, for she knew from past experience that her father was not fond of granting favours, but since her illness he had been so kind to her that she felt emboldened to make her request.
 
“I will do it, dear,” said the stiff man, bending, morally as well as physically, as he had never bent before—for the prospect of Loo’s death had been presented to him by the physicians. “I will do it, dear, if I can, and if the request be reasonable.”
 
“Oh, then, do forgive Fred, and let him be an artist!” cried Loo, eagerly stretching out one of her thin hands.
 
“Hush, darling,” said Mr Auberly, with a look of distress; “you must not excite yourself so. I have forgiven Fred long ago, and he has become an artist in spite of my objections.”
 
“Yes, but let him come home, I mean, and be happy with us again as he used to be, and go to the office with you,” said Loo.
 
Mr Auberly replied somewhat coldly to this that Fred was welcome to return home if he chose, but that his place in the office had been filled up. Besides, it was impossible for him to be both a painter and a man of business, he said, and added that Loo had better not talk about such things, because she did not understand them. All he could say was that he was willing to receive Fred, if Fred was willing to return. He did not say, however, that he was willing to restore Fred to his former position in regard to his fortune, and as Loo knew nothing about her brother having been disinherited, she felt that she must be satisfied with this cold concession.
 
“Can you not ask some other favour, such as I could grant?” said Mr Auberly, with a smile, which was not nearly so grim as it used to be before “the fire.” (The family always talked of the burning of Mr Auberly’s house as “the fire,” to the utter repudiation of all other fires—the great one of monumental fame included.)
 
Loo meditated some time before replying.
 
“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I have another favour to ask. How stupid of me to forget it. I want you very much to go and see a fairy that lives—”
 
“A fairy, Loo!” said Mr Auberly, while a shade of anxiety crossed his face. “You—you are rather weak just now; I must make you be quiet, and try to sleep, if you talk nonsense, dear.”
 
“It’s not nonsense,” said Loo, again stretching out the thin hand, which her father grasped, replaced under the coverings, and held there; “it’s quite true, papa,” she continued energetically! “it is a fairy I want you to go and see—she’s a pantomime fairy, and lives somewhere near London Bridge, and she’s been very ill, and is so poor that they say she’s dying for want of good food.”
 
“Who told you about her, Loo?”
 
“Willie Willders,” she replied, “he has been to see her and her father the clown a good many times.”
 
Mr Auberly, frowned, for the name of Willie Willders did not sound pleasantly in his ears.
 
“Do go to see her, pray, dear papa,” pleaded Loo with much earnestness, “and give her some money. You know that darling mamma said, just before she was taken away,” (the poor child persistently refused to use the expression “when she died”), “she wanted you to take me sometimes to see poor people when they were sick, and I’ve often thought of that since—especially when I have come to the verse in my Bible which tells me to ‘consider the poor,’ and I have often—oh, so very often—longed to go, but you were always so busy, dear papa, that you never had time, you know,” (the stiff man winced a little at this) “but you seem to have more time now, papa, and although I’m too weak to go with you, I thought I would ask you to go to see this poor fairy, and tell her I will go to see her some day—if—if God makes me strong again.”
 
The stiff man winced still more at this, but it was only a momentary wince, such as a man gives when he gets a sudden and severe twinge of toothache. It instantly passed away. Still, as in the case of toothache, it left behind an uneasy impression that there might be something very sharp and difficult to bear looming in the not distant future.
 
Mr Auberly had covered his face with his hand, and leant his elbow on the head of the couch. Looking up quickly with a smile—still tinged with grimness, for evil habits and their results are not to be got rid of in a day—he said:
 
“Well, Loo, I will go to see this fairy if it will please you; but somewhere near London Bridge is not a very definite address.”
 
“Oh, but Willie Willders knows it,” said Loo.
 
“But where is Willie Willders?” objected her father.
 
“Perhaps at home; perhaps at Mr Tippet’s place.”
 
“Well, we shall soon find out,” said Mr Auberly, rising and ringing the bell.
 
Hopkins answered the summons.
 
Stiff, thin, tall, sedate, powdered, superfine Hopkins, how different from the personage we saw but lately plunging like a maniac at the fire-bell! Could it have been thee, Hopkins? Is it possible that anything so spruce, dignified, almost stately, could have fallen so very low? We fear it is too true, for human nature not unfrequently furnishes instances of tremendous contrast, just as material nature sometimes furnishes the spectacle of the serene summer sky being engulfed in the black thunderstorm!
 
“Hopkins!” said Mr Auberly, handing him a slip of paper, “go to this address and ask for the boy William Willders; if he is there, bring him here immediately; if not, find out where he is, search for him, and bring him here without delay. Take a cab.”
 
Hopkins folded the paper delicately with both his little fingers projecting very much, as though they wished it to be distinctly understood that they had no connection whatever with the others, and would not on any account assist the low-born and hard-working forefingers and thumbs in such menial employment. Hopkins’s nose appeared to be affected with something of the same spirit. Then Hopkins bowed—that is to say, he broke across suddenly at the middle, causing his stiff upper man to form an obtuse angle with his rigid legs for one moment, recovered his perpendicular—and retired.
 
Oh! Hopkins, how difficult to believe that thy back was once as round as a hoop, and thy legs bent at acute angles whilst thou didst lay violent hands on—well, well; let bygones be bygones, and let us all, in kindness to thee, learn the song which says—
 
    “Teach, O teach me to forget.”
 
Hailing a cab with the air of six emperors rolled into one, Hopkins drove to Mr Tippet’s residence, where he learned that Willie had gone home, so he followed him up, and soon found himself at Notting Hill before the door of Mrs Willders’ humble abode. The door was opened by Willie himself, who stared in some surprise at the stately visitor.
 
“Is William Willders at ’ome?” said Hopkins.
 
“I rather think he is,” replied Willie, with a grin; “who shall I say calls on him—eh? You’d better send up your card.”
 
Hopkins frowned, but, being a good-natured man, he immediately smiled, and said he would walk in.
 
“I think,” said Willie, interposing his small person in the way, “that you’d as well stop where you are, for there’s a invalid in the drawing-room, and all the other rooms is engaged ’cept the kitchen, which of course I could not show you into. Couldn’t you deliver your message? I could manage to carry it if it ain’t too heavy.”
 
In a state of uncertainty as to how far this was consistent with his dignity, Hopkins hesitated for a moment, but at length delivered his message, with which Willie returned to the parlour.
 
Here, on the little sofa, lay the tall form of Frank Willders, arrayed in an old dressing-gown, and with one of his legs bandaged up and motionless. His face was pale, and he was suffering great pain, but a free-and-easy smile was on his lips, for beside him sat a lady and a young girl, the latter of whom was afflicted with strong sympathy, but appeared afraid to show it. Mrs Willders, with a stocking and knitting-wires in her hands, sat on a chair at the head of the bed, looking anxious, but hopeful and mild. An open Bible which lay on a small table at her side, showed how she had been engaged before the visitors entered.
 
“My good sir,” said the lady, with much earnestness of voice and manner, “I assure you it grieves me to the heart to see you lying in this state, and I’m quite sure it grieves Emma too, and all your friends. When I think of the risks you run and the way you dash up these dreadful fire—fire—things—what-d’ye-call-ums. What do you call them?”
 
“Fire-escapes, ma’am,” answered Frank, with a smile.
 
“Ah, fire-escapes (how you ever come down them alive is a mystery to me, I’m sure!) But as I was saying, it makes one shudder to think of; and—and—how does your leg feel now?” said Miss Tippet, forgetting what she had intended to say.
 
“Pretty well,” replied Frank; “the doctor tells me it has broken without splintering, and that I’ll be all right in a few weeks, and fit for duty again.”
 
“Fit for duty, young man!” exclaimed Miss Tippet; “do you mean to say that you will return to your dreadful profession when you recover? Have you not received warning enough?”
 
“Why, madam,” said Frank, “some one must look after the fires, you know, else London would be in ashes in a few months; and I like the work.”
 
“Like the work!” cried Miss Tippet, in amazement; “like to be almost smoked to death, and burned alive, and tumbled off roofs, and get upset off what’s-its-names, and fall down fire—fire—things, and break all your legs and arms!”
 
“Well—no, I don’t like all that,” said Frank, laughing; “but I like the vigour and energy that are called forth in the work, and I like the object of the work, which is to save life and property. Why,” exclaimed Frank enthusiastically, “it has all the danger and excitement of a soldier’s life without the bloody work, and with better ends in view.”
 
“Nay, nay, Frank,” said the peaceful Mrs Willders, “you must not say ‘better ends,’ because it is a great and glorious thing to defend one’s native land.”
 
“A very just observation,” said Miss Tippet, nodding approval.
 
“Why, mother, who would have expected to hear you standing up for the red-coats in this fashion?” said Frank.
 
“I stand up for the blue-jackets too,” observed Mrs Willders meekly; “they fight for their country as well.”
 
“True, mother,” rejoined Frank; “but I did not refer to ultimate ends, I only thought of the immediate results in connection with those engaged. The warrior fights, and, in so doing, destroys life and property. The fireman fights, and in doing so protects and preserves both.”
 
“Hear! hear!” interrupted Willie; “but the copy-book says ‘Comparisons are odiows!’ don’t it? Mother, here’s a fathom and two inches or so of humanity as wants me to go with him to Mr Auberly. I s’pose Frank can get along without me for a little while—eh?”
 
“Certainly, my son; why does he want you?”
 
“Don’t know. P’raps he’s goin’ to offer to make me his secretary. But you don’t seem at all alarmed at th............