But the light of the coming fire played and flickered over the still, white face, that never before had seemed so strangely beautiful. “Miss Ludolph!――O Christine, awake!” cried Dennis, louder. To his wonder and unbounded perplexity, he saw the hitherto motionless lips wreathe themselves into a lovely smile, but otherwise there was no response.... A louder and nearer explosion, like a warning voice, made him wholly desperate, and he roughly seized her hand. Christine’s blue eyes opened wide with a bewildered stare; a look of the wildest terror came into them, and she started up and shrieked, “Father! father!” Then, turning toward the as yet unknown invader, she cried piteously: “Oh, spare my life! Take everything; I will give you anything you ask, only spare my life!” She evidently thought herself addressing a ruthless robber. Dennis retreated towards the door the moment she awakened; and this somewhat reassured her. In the firm, quiet tone that always calms excitement, he replied, “I only ask you to give me your confidence, Miss Ludolph, and to join with me, Dennis Fleet, in my effort to save your life.” “Dennis Fleet! Dennis Fleet! save my life! O ye gods, what does it all mean?” and she passed her hand in bewilderment across her brow, as if to brush away the wild fancies of a dream. “Miss Ludolph, as you love your life, arouse yourself and escape! The city is burning!” When Dennis returned, he found Christine panting helplessly on a chair. “Oh, dress! dress!” he cried. “We have not a moment to spare.” The sparks and cinders were falling about the house, a perfect storm of fire. The roof was already blazing, and smoke was pouring down the stairs. At his suggestion she had at first laid out a heavy woolen dress and Scotch plaid shawl. She nervously sought to put on the dress, but her trembling fingers could not fasten it over her wildly throbbing bosom. Dennis saw that in the terrible emergency he must act the part of a brother or husband, and, springing forward, he assisted her with the dexterity he had learned in childhood. Just then a blazing piece of roof, borne on the wings of the gale, crashed through the window, and in a moment the apartment, that had seemed like a beautiful casket for a still more exquisite jewel, was in flames. Hastily wrapping Christine in the blanket shawl, he snatched her, crying and wringing her hands, into the street. Holding his hand she ran two or three blocks with all the speed her wild terror prompted; then her strength began to fail, and she pantingly cried that she could run no longer. But this rapid rush carried them out of immediate peril, and brought them into the flying throng pressing their way northward and westward. Illustration: (‡ decoration) Illustration: (‡ decoration) FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. (OUR MOST COSMOPOLITAN NOVELIST.)