Had she perhaps suspected this good husband, who came so joyfully to tell her that all was safe? She made it up to him by the fullest, most lavish restoration of confidence, as was natural to a generous woman; and in the happiest thankful state of mind, though with an odd half-dreaming fancy that old Gateshead had set fire to himself, and that she smelt his nightcap smouldering into slow destruction, fell finally, when it was almost dawn, into a sound sleep. But Mary could not believe that she had been more than a few minutes asleep when she was awoke by the horrible clangour of the alarm-bell, and by the rushing and screaming of all the servants. Could it be old Gateshead’s nightcap that caused that terrible significant sniff of burning that pervaded the entire atmosphere? Before she could wake her husband, who lay in a profound sleep, Charley had rushed in at the door with the alarming cry of fire. “Fire!—get up, mother, make haste, but don’t flurry yourself; put something on; it’s in the west wing. There’s time to escape,” cried Charley. “I’ll get out the children, and come back for you,” he said, as he rushed off again. “Fire!” cried Mr Summerhayes, springing up. “Good heavens! It’s that old fool, old Gateshead How could I be so mad as to trust him by himself?” and almost before Mary knew he was awake, he too had rushed out of the room, drawing on his dressing-gown as he flew out at the door. “Oh Tom, see to the children; don’t leave me!” cried Mary in her fright, and she too wrapped herself hastily in the first garment she could find, and rushed to the door. She could see nothing but a thick volume of smoke pouring from the west wing through the entire house, into which her husband’s figure disappeared, while every soul in the place seemed emerging out of it in different varieties of fright and undress. “We’ve sent off for the fire-engines; and don’t be alarmed, mother, it’s entirely in the west wing,” cried Charley, who came towards her with Alf in one arm and little Mary in the other. Harry and Loo came crouching close to the big brother behind—all silent, all ready to cry, all staring with wide-open, suddenly-awakened eyes, and frightened out of their very lives. “Oh Charley, Mr Summerhayes will be killed! Where is he going? Is it to look for Mr Gateshead?” cried Mary, who, when she saw her children safe, fell into a panic about her husband. He had rushed into the very depths of that black volume of smoke, in spite of many warning voices. He came staggering back after a few minutes, half suffocated, to the staircase, where he sat down to recover himself. “Oh Tom, Mr Gateshead is safe,” cried Mary, who was shivering in her shawl with cold and terror, and who would not leave her husband, though the smoke came nearer and nearer. “D—Mr Gateshead,” cried the excited master of the house. “Charley, fly to the other side—to the window—my study—the tin box! I’ll take care of your mother,” he shouted, as Charley appeared coming back. When he had