Then the child was conscious of a silence--an interchange of glance between his mother and her step-son. Denzil knew that Mrs. Vanston had come down to the bonfire to burn something--that she had desired to send him and Felix away that they might not see her do so; that the sudden opening of a glowing hot hole in the fire quite near had made her risk detection and toss in what she came to destroy. Felix had not understood. He thought Denzil looked severely at "Ma" because she spoilt him, Felix, and let him have his way when he roared. But as his paper fire flared and died down and blackened, the memory of the little scene floated to him through the mist of years; he saw the sweet place, the faint sunlight, the privet hedges and green archways of the vegetable garden; and for one moment there swept over him a desire to live--a desire to see the Cleveshire hills again. It expired with the last red glow in the flapping ash of paper. Life was over. Nobody there at Normansgrave wanted him. Nay, more, they would be devoutly thankful to know that he was dead. He rose from his crouched attitude and straightened himself as well as he could for the gnawing pains of hunger. Then he took the mug from the cupboard and carried it to the table. He paused, looking round. The bed was unmade, its unwholesome grayish linen crumpled and tossed. Since he was to lie there to sleep his last sleep, it might as well be smooth. He made it hurriedly, for the wolf that gnawed him was growing clamorous, and came back to the table, where stood the bottles of oblivion. Pouring the brown syrup into the mug, he raised it to his lips. "A health to Denzil Vanston, of Normansgrave!" he cried aloud; and then, just as the rim of the mug touched his mouth, a shadow fell before his eyes, some dark thing passed swiftly across the window, there was a heavy thud, and a muffled shriek. The suicide started as if he had been shot. He trembled in every limb. What, in Heaven's name, could it be? Something, someone, was hanging doubled over the sooty iron railing outside his open window. He put down the cup. He staggered forward. A human body was hanging across the rail. It writhed; in one instant more it would have fallen, and it must fall upon the railway lines below. That human instinct which comes into action before thought sent him flying to the rescue. He seized the limp, twisting body, and drew it with difficulty, for he was very weak, back over the rail till the feet rested upon the small iron balcony beside him. It was a girl--a girl about sixteen, with a torrent of bright brown hair. She was very thin; her face seemed to him of a bluish tinge. The moment he touched her she began to cry out. When she was on her feet she began to struggle. "Let me go! Let me go! Don't touch me, I must kill myself! How dare you hold me! Let me go, I say!"