“It is not,” said the priest. “Excuse me, Miss Briggs, there are thousands in this stricken town in need of our help, and I should prefer that only the gentler and worthier of the sufferers should come under that roof. There are many excellent resting-places where our friend here would be far more suitably placed. You ought to know his character by now, and you must think of your own good name.” “Rot,” said Courtesy. “What do his morals matter when he’s broken his leg?” “Remember you are also succouring these innocent children,” persisted the priest. “Would you have them under the same roof?” “Rot,” repeated Courtesy. “The roof’ll be all right.” “Dose little children ...” said the policeman suddenly. “He covahed dem when dat house was fallin’. Verree brave gentleman. I chahnced to be runnin’ by....” “Of course he did,” said Courtesy. “The St. Maurice, porter.” And seizing Aitch and Zed each by a hand, she started the procession. The High Street looked as if one side of it had charged the other with equally disastrous results to both. At different points in it, fire and heavy smoke were animating the scene. Distracted men and women panted and moaned and tore at the wreckage with bleeding hands. A little crying crowd was collected round a woman who lay nailed to the ground by a mountain of bricks, with her face fixed in a glare of terrible surprise. By the cathedral steps the dead lay in a row, shoulder to shoulder, with the horrid uniformity of sprats upon a plate. Courtesy lifted up Zed and called Aitch’s attention to the healthier distress of a little dog, which ran around looking for its past in the extraordinary mazes of the present. The gardener, swinging along painfully upon his door, opened his eyes and saw the fires. To his surprise he recognised the house which could boast the highest flames. Its wall had fallen to disclose the shattered remains of the rooms in which the gardener had lately wrestled with despair. The bamboos and the gorgeous garden watched unmoved the pillar of fire that danced in their midst. There was no sign of the wire-haired woman. But only one thought came to the gardener’s mind on the subject. “Why she will see that. It is a beacon from me to her.” As a matter of fact she did not. A pretty woman, crying in a curious laughing voice, ran into Courtesy’s arms. “My little babies ...” she quavered. “What a catastrophe. I don’t know where my husband is. There is a grand piano on my bed.” “This is my mother,” said Aitch. “Come along to the St. Maurice,” said Courtesy. “That’s where I am taking your babies to. Our piano there is still in its proper place.” So they all followed the gardener. “Somebody must go and find a doctor,” said Courtesy at the door of the St. Maurice. She looked suggestively at the priest. But he replied, “I wash my hands of the matter, Miss Briggs. I consider this to be a judgment on that young man.” “A judgment?” wept the mother of Aitch and Zed. “Why, what has he done?”