forever by the memory of dearest relatives and friends who perished in the fire. The whole building was now in flames. In less than an hour all was over. Naught remained but a heap of smoking ruins; and around them the agonized crowd of those who lived and raved—and around these again, an awe-struck, mourning city. CHAPTER XXV. “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart, The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps: on either side upswells The downy pillow lightly prest; She sleeps, nor dreams, but only dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.—TENNYSON The spell that bound Captain Fairfax, when he recognized his wife upon the stage, was broken by the fall of the drop-curtain. He instantly left the boxes and hastened around behind the scenes. After many baffled inquiries, and many misdirections, he prosecuted his search alone, and at length found her prostrate form. The wind had blown the smoke and flame in another direction, and she lay there uninjured, though insensible, and in extremity of danger. He raised her, threw his cloak around her, ran with her into the fresh air, called a hackney coach, placed her in it, jumped in and took his seat by her side, drew her insensible form within his arms, upon his bosom, and directed the coachman to drive rapidly to Fairview House. As they passed swiftly through the streets, the cry of “Fire! fire! fire!” rung through the air, but he scarcely heard it. The rushing of crowds of people in the opposite direction to that in which they were driving, frequently impeded the progress of the carriage, but he scarcely knew it. All his senses, all his thoughts, all his emotions were absorbed in the gentle form that lay swooning on his bosom. And “Oh! how _thin_ she is! how _thin_, good Heaven!” he groaned many times, as he held his arm around the fragile waist, or felt the emaciated arm and hand, or pressed his cheek against the wan face. “How thin she is, good Heaven, how thin! Is this illness? Illness unto death, perhaps! Drive fast, coachman! Fast!” He longed to lay her at rest upon her bed, that he might perchance silence his anxiety. And—“Faster, coachman! Faster!” he continued to cry, whenever the thickening crowd arrested the progress of the carriage. At length they reached Fairview House. He lifted her out and bore her into the hall. His mother had retired to rest long since; but he rang the bell violently, and said, to the astonished servants, who came at the summons—