It was Valentine who, turning on her pillow to look from the window, saw the strange illumination, and, springing up, discovered its cause. One could hear the curl and crackle of the dry boards as the flames devoured them, feel the heat, smell the rolling volumes of smoke. Confusion reigned supreme as Valentine ran through the halls, waking the slumbering people. Nobody attempted to save anything, but all fled for their lives from the old house, which burned like so much tinder. The great trees surrounding it were shriveled in the heat, and falling flakes of fire set barns and stables ablaze. The low clouds caught the lurid reflection, the river shone like a mirror, while along the horizon the darkness was so intense, so thick and inky black, that it seemed as if all the night had been compressed into it. The Dugarres wept to see the old house falling to ashes before their eyes—all but Valentine. Its walls held no loving associations, no precious memories for her; but the force, the awful destructive fury of the fire fascinated her. And then, from group to group, ran a cry for Miss Lawrence. She could not be found. Had she been left, forgotten in the terror and confusion? Then, indeed, men and women looked at one another with blanched faces and eyes of horror. "It would be death to go in there now," said one man. But, death or not, one had gone, running across the lawn, up the steps, and into the clouds of smoke filling the piazza and wreathing the great white columns—Valentine Dugarre. Black and Livingston would have followed her, but were forcibly restrained. It was enough, they were told, that two lives should be lost, without throwing their own away. But in a few moments a joyful shout drew all to the side of the house, where they saw Valentine at a second-story window, with Helen Lawrence half-fainting at her side. She helped her through the window, and those below could hear her eager words of encouragement as Helen dropped safely down to the hands outstretched to receive her. "Now, Valentine! quickly, dear!" cried her cousin, sharply. "Yes, for God’s sake!" Livingston cried. But it was too late. A volume of flame seemed to burst up at her very feet, curling in the folds of her white gown and circling about her head. Ont of that fiery nimbus her face shone for a moment, and then, with a creaking of burning timbers and a great flare of light, the whole building fell in. *THE STORY OF A LILAC GOWN.*