“Of more importance than the life of a fellow-creature?” interrupted a rough-looking man, in a farmer’s dress, who had just stepped up. “Nay, then, I have not. Come with me, my poor woman. I live in the cottage yonder. It is but a poor place; but it will afford you food and shelter.” “Such men,” mused Gottfried, “do not estimate the superiority of science over the trivial objects upon which most waste their lives to little purpose. But how should they? They pass their lives in a round of petty duties and petty employments, above and beyond which they care not to look.” Such were the meditations of Gottfried. Ah! thou that canst see the mote in thy brother’s eye, and dost not discern the beam that is in thine own! Gottfried was approaching his study on his return from the walk, when his meditations were disturbed by a cry which always makes the blood course more quickly through the veins,—the fearful cry of “Fire!” Voice after voice took up the cry till it swelled into a terrible and confused clamor. Fire! Gottfried looked up, and, to his inexpressible consternation, beheld the flames rapidly consuming his own dwelling. The conviction flashed upon him, with the speed of lightning, that he had left a candle burning which he had lighted for the purpose of sealing a letter. Undoubtedly it had come in contact with the loose papers which lay about it, and _this_ was the result. “My books! my treatise!” exclaimed Gottfried with anguish, as he contemplated the probability of their destruction. “They will all be consumed!” He hurried to the scene of disaster. The firemen were plying their utmost efforts to bring the flames under. But the fire had already made such headway that they struggled against hope. Gottfried lent his aid with the energy of despair. Finally, unable to conceal from himself that the building must be consumed, he rushed into the crackling flames, in the hope of at least rescuing the manuscript of which he had written that day the concluding paragraphs. It was a mad effort, such as nothing but despair could prompt. The smoke stifled him; the flames scorched and burned him. He was dragged out by main force, having succeeded in passing but a few feet beyond the threshold. Luckily he was in a state of insensibility, so that the last scenes in the conflagration passed without his knowledge. The weeks that succeeded were a blank to Gottfried, for he was plunged in the delirium of a brain fever. When, at length, he awoke to consciousness, it was in a small and poorly-furnished chamber. At the bedside was seated a woman, coarsely but neatly attired. “Where am I?” he inquired, bewildered. “What has happened to me?” “You are at length better, thank Heaven,” said the woman, earnestly, “since the delirium has left you.” “Delirium!” said Gottfried, raising himself on his elbow in surprise. “Oh, yes! I now recall the fearful calamity which has befallen me. My books,—are they all gone? Is there not one left?” “Yes, one was saved.”