The idea of a fire—of a fire in one’s own house, darkly raging in the silence of the night, threatening death to helpless sleepers in their beds—is too overwhelming at first to allow the minds of the startled sufferers in ordinary circumstances to enter into details. Mary, for her part, found so many things to be grateful for,—first, she was so thankful that all were safe—second, so glad to find that even the house was not injured to any serious degree,—and, third, so proud of the energy and zeal of her husband,—that the real loss was a long time of becoming fairly visible to her. Before it dawned upon his mother, Charley, worn out as he was by his exertions, had realised what it was; and had felt, with a strange momentary thrill and shock through his whole frame, that the foundations of the world were crumbling under his feet, and that he dared no longer boast of the morrow. Loo too, who had been almost enthusiastic about her stepfather in that first hour of his heroism, had fallen back again, and was paler than ever, and looked more wistfully out of her background with those great brown eyes. But still Mary continued to kiss little Alf, who was rather impatient of the process, and rejoice over her children. “If it had broken out anywhere else,” she said, “we might all have been burned in our beds. Was it not a wonderful interposition of Providence, Tom, when there was to be a fire, to think it should be there? We had not even any associations with the west wing—except you, dear—I am sure I beg your pardon—but you rather enjoyed building the study, and you must make another one. I shall always think it a special Providence the fire was there.” “You don’t know what you’re saying, Mary,” said her husband; “it was not Providence, it was that confounded old——Oh, Mr Gateshead! are you in the least aware how this happened? Did you drop your candle, or a match, or anything? or were you burning any of your papers? It is a horrible misfortune to have happened just now.” “But really, Tom, the house is so little injured it won’t matter for to-morrow,” said Mary; “things can go on just as before.” “Oh!” said her husband, with a little groan, “don’t talk so lightly; you don’t know what’s happened. Gateshead, why on earth didn’t you go at once to bed?” “Mr Summerhayes, I’ll thank you to leave off that sort of thing,” said the old lawyer, divided between fear and indignation. “I am not stupid, sir, as you try to make people believe, though I am older than you are. It’s a very strange circumstance, but if Providence has not done it, as you say, neither have I. But I’ll tell you what is your duty, Mr Summerhayes. Before I leave here, which shall be to-day, I’ll draw out a draught-deed to correspond with this one that is unfortunately burnt——” “What deed do you mean? burnt?” cried Mary, in dismay; “not _that_ deed——”