The house was left to burn, and every thought was centred on the rescuer and the rescued. The fresh air roused Bertha from her swoon, and at the first opening of her eyes and the first words she spoke the mother went as mad with joy as she had been with terror. ‘Alive!--alive! Safe!--safe! And oh, my God! my Christian friends, it was the Butterfly as did it!’ But it was a full month later when Lane Protheroe asked his first question, ‘Where’s Bertha?’ ‘Hush! my dear, dear darlin’,’ said Mrs. Fellowes, her eyes brimful of tears. ‘Lie quiet, there’s a dear.’ ‘Where’s Bertha?’ ‘Safe and well, love; safe and well.’ ‘I’m thirsty,’ said the Butterfly. He was supplied with a cooling drink, and fell to sleep smiling, with unchanged posture. In half a dozen hours he woke again. ‘Where’s Bertha?’ ‘Here, dearest.’ And we leave them hand in hand, yearning on each other through their blissful tears. End of Project Gutenberg’s Bulldog And Butterfly, by David Christie Murray