As she did so her sleeve, which was covered with cotton wool, spangled over with something that shone, touched one of the tapers and caught fire—how I do not know—and the flame ran up her arm towards her throat. She stood quite still. I suppose that she was paralysed with fear; and the ladies who were near screamed very loud, but did nothing. Then some impulse seized me—perhaps instinct would be a better word to use, considering my age. I threw myself upon the child, and, beating at the fire with my hands, mercifully succeeded in extinguishing it before it really got hold. My wrists were so badly scorched that they had to be wrapped up in wool for a long time afterwards, but with the exception of a single burn upon her throat, little Stella Carson was not much hurt. This is all that I remember about the Christmas-tree at the Hall. What happened afterwards is lost to me, but to this day in my sleep I sometimes see little Stella’s sweet face and the stare of terror in her dark eyes as the fire ran up her arm. This, however, is not wonderful, for I had, humanly speaking, saved the life of her who was destined to be my wife. The next event which I can recall clearly is that my mother and three brothers all fell ill of fever, owing, as I afterwards learned, to the poisoning of our well by some evil-minded person, who threw a dead sheep into it. It must have been while they were ill that Squire Carson came one day to the vicarage. The weather was still cold, for there was a fire in the study, and I sat before the fire writing letters on a piece of paper with a pencil, while my father walked up and down the room talking to himself. Afterwards I knew that he was praying for the lives of his wife and children. Presently a servant came to the door and said that some one wanted to see him. “It is the squire, sir,” said the maid, “and he says he particularly wishes to see you.” “Very well,” answered my father, wearily, and presently Squire Carson came in. His face was white and haggard, and his eyes shone so fiercely that I was afraid of him. “Forgive me for intruding on you at such a time, Quatermain,” he said, in a hoarse voice, “but to-morrow I leave this place for ever, and I wish to speak to you before I go—indeed, I must speak to you.” “Shall I send Allan away?” said my father, pointing to me. “No; let him bide. He will not understand.” Nor, indeed, did I at the time, but I remembered every word, and in after years their meaning grew on me. “First tell me,” he went on, “how are they?” and he pointed upwards with his thumb. “My wife and two of the boys are beyond hope,” my father answered, with a groan. “I do not know how it will go with the third. The Lord’s will be done!” “The Lord’s will be done,” the squire echoed, solemnly. “And now, Quatermain, listen—my wife’s gone.” “Gone!” my father answered. “Who with?”