“Oh! oh! _tate tare_, dee papa!” came presently in a frightened tone. Then louder: “Papa! dee papa! wate up! you’ll det afire!” Wee feet raced across the hall, a round face, red and scared, appeared in the doorway. “Hetter! Hetter! tum, wate up dee papa! ’E bed is on fire!” Through the doors left open behind her Hester saw a lurid glare, a column of smoke. Shrieking for help at the top of her feeble lungs she plied the levers of her chair and rolled rapidly into the burning room. Upon the table at the foot of the bed had stood the spirit lamp and copper teakettle used by Mrs. Wayt in heating her husband’s phosphate draughts at night. Annie had lighted the lamp and contrived to knock it over upon the bed. The alcohol had ignited and poured over the counterpane. Mr. Wayt lay, unstirring, amid the running flames. Hester made straight for him, leaned far out of her chair, to pull off the blazing covers, “Papa! papa! papa!” He had not heard the word from her in ten years. He was not to hear it now. Mrs. Wayt, Hetty, March Gilchrist, and the servants, rushing to the spot, found father and child enwrapped in the same scorching pall. * * * * * “Mr. Wayt died at midnight,” reported the Fairhill papers. “He never regained consciousness. The heroic daughter who lost her life in attempting to rescue a beloved parent lived until daybreak. “‘They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided.’” * * * * * “I must be going, dear heart!” whispered Hetty’s namechild, as the August dawn, made faint by showers, glimmered through the windows. “I cannot see you. Would Mr. March mind kissing me ‘good-by’?” “Mind?” He could not restrain the great sob. A tear fell with the kiss. “Dear little friend! my sweet sister!” The glorious eyes, darkened by death and almost sightless, widened in turning toward him. She smiled radiantly. “Thank you for calling me _that_. Now, Miss May! And poor mamma! I wish I had been a better child to you! Hetty, dearest! hold me fast and kiss me last of all! You will be very happy, darling! But you won’t forget me—will you? I heard the doctors say”—a gleam of the old fantastic humor playing about her mouth—“that I had swallowed the flame. I think they were right—for the—_bitterness is all—burned—out—of my heart_!” A SOCIAL SUCCESS. PART I. “I KNOW it is _horrid_ to swoop down upon you at this barbarously early hour, but I couldn’t help coming the minute I received your card. We get our mail at the breakfast table, and I fairly screamed with joy when I opened the envelope. ‘Jack!’ I said, ‘_who_ do you think has come to New York to live?’ “‘The Picanninnies and the Joblillies and the Garyulies, and probably the grand Panjandrum himself,’ said my gentleman.