"Three o'clock; but wake up, Mary; I have something to tell you, which must not be heard by sleepy ears." "How fresh you look!" exclaimed Mary, sitting up in bed and looking at her cousin admiringly. "Who would believe you had been dancing all night!" "I have not been dancing all night, nor half the night." "Why--what have you been doing then?" "Listening to Philip Oswald. Oh Mary! I am certainly the most fortunate woman in the world. He is mine at last--he, the most elegant, the most brilliant man in New-York, and with such a splendid fortune. I was so happy, so excited, that I could not sleep, and therefore I awoke you to talk." "I am glad you did, for I am almost as much pleased as you can be--such joy is better than sleep;--but all the bells in the city seem to be ringing--did you see any thing of the fire?" "Oh yes! the whole sky at the southeast is glowing from the flames--the largest fire, they say, that has ever been known in the city--but it is far enough from us--down in Wall-street--and who can think of fires with such joy before them? Only think, Mary, with Philip's fortune and Philip's taste, what an establishment I shall have." "And what a mother in dear, good Mrs. Oswald!" "Yes--but I hope she will not wish to live with us--mother-in-laws, you know, always want to manage every thing in their sons' houses." Thus the cousins sat talking till the fire-bells ceased their monotonous and ominous clang, and the late dawn of a winter morning reddened the eastern sky. It was half-past nine o'clock when they met again at their breakfast; yet late as it was, Mr. Danby, usually a very early riser, was not quite ready for it. He had spent most of the night at the scene of the fire, and had with great difficulty and labor saved his valuable stock of French goods from the destroyer. When he joined his daughter and niece, his mind was still under the influence of last night's excitement, and he could talk of nothing but the fire. "Rather expensive fireworks, I am afraid," said Caroline flippantly, as her father described the lurid grandeur of the scene. "Do not speak lightly, my daughter, of that which must reduce many from affluence to beggary. Millions of property were lost last night. The 16th of December, 1835, will long be remembered in the annals of New-York, I fear." "It will long be remembered in my annals," whispered Caroline to her cousin, with a bright smile, despite her father's chiding.