He darted away down the stone staircase, two steps at a time, with the practised agility of one who had descended them many hundred times. As soon as Flora could disengage herself from her father’s embrace, she drew his attention to Hal, who had all the time modestly remained close to the threshold of the door. In glowing terms she related to him the part which he had played in the dreadful fire, the origin of which was a mystery. She told him of the desperate hazard he had incurred in his efforts to save her life, and she also related to him what had since occurred. Old Wilton, with tears in his eyes, thanked him:-- “Mr. Vivian,” he said feebly, “the day may be distant, but I have faith that it will come, when I shall in some degree be able to repay you for the past: not that salvation of a life can ever be meetly rewarded, but something in the direction may be achieved--some service may be needed by you, and it may be in my power to render it; it will show, at least, the spirit of my gratefulness towards you. Mr. Vivian, I have not always been the abject wretch you now see me; I may not continue to be such. Ah! my God!” he cried, putting his hands to his forehead, as though smitten with sudden agony, and then, turning to his astonished daughter, who was regarding him with an affrighted look, he said, in a tone of unutterable anguish--“everything was hopelessly, utterly destroyed in that dreadful fire.” She clasped her hands, bowed her head, and replied, sorrowfully-- “Alas! everything!” He groaned bitterly. “The fire was so sudden and so violent,” observed Hal, gently, “even those who escaped had hardly time to save themselves in their night dresses--opportunity was barely afforded for that.” The old man rose up, and paced the room, murmuring, in accents of acute misery-- “All gone, all gone, the long cherished hope of years--the one link which, through all my misery, has bound me to life. Everything has perished--my long, long sustained hopefulness is swept from me, and henceforth there is nothing left but misery and despair!” “Father, dear father, do not give way to such gloomy fears,” cried Flora, tenderly caressing him. “A cloud has long hung over our house; it is at its darkest now, but it will disperse and pass away.” “Never! never!” cried the old man, hoarsely. “In that dread fire, all our expectations--all the possibilities of restoring them, are consumed; we might have been wealthy in the time to come, now we must be beggars for ever.” “Your sorrows overpower your better reason, Mr. Wilton,” exclaimed Hal, pained to see the acute grief of the old man, and the sharp tears of anguish coursing down the cheeks of Flora, whom he seemed to love more deeply and fervently each time his eye traced the exquisite beauty of her features. Old Wilton turned to him.