CONSTANCE EMORY and her mother, waiting quietly in their own home, heard the cheers when the noise from Dan's shrieking engine reached the crowd of desperate men on the square. Then presently they heard the rattle and clash of the fire-engines as they were dragged through the street, and were aware that the relief train had arrived, but it was not until the doctor came in some time long after midnight that they knew who had been the savior of the town. “It's all over, dear. The fire is under control,” he said, cheerfully, addressing his wife. “I guess we can go to bed now and feel pretty sure we won't be burned out before morning.” Constance put down the book she had been trying to read, and rose tiredly and stiffly from her chair beside the table. “Then the train did come, after all?” she said. “Yes, but not a moment too soon. I tell you we can't be grateful enough. I've been with Oakley and his father; that's what kept me,” he explained. “Oakley!” Constance cried, in amazement. “You don't mean--” “Yes. Didn't you know that it was Oakley and his father who brought the relief train? The old man is dead. He was killed on the way. It's a miracle that either of them got through alive. Hadn't you heard?” Constance put out her hands blindly, for a sudden mist had come before her eyes. “Father, you don't mean that Mr. Oakley has returned to Antioch--that he is here now?” “Yes, it seems no one else would come. Oakley was in Chicago when he first heard of the fire, and started immediately for Buckhorn, where he found the relief train. Oddly enough, he found his father there, too.” “Then there was something to the old man, after all,” said Mrs. Emory, whose sympathies were as generous as they were easily aroused. “A good deal, I should say. He must have known that he was coming back to arrest and almost certain conviction.” Constance's glance searched her father's face. She wanted to hear more of Oakley. Her heart was hungering for news of this man who had risked his life to save them. All her lingering tenderness--the unwilling growth of many days--was sweeping away the barriers of her pride. “Mr. Oakley was not hurt?” she questioned, breathlessly, pale to the lips. “He is pretty badly shaken up, and no wonder, but he will be all right in the morning.” “Where is he now?” she asked. Her father turned to her. “Oakley--You look tired out, Constance. Do go to bed. I'll tell you all about it in the morning.” “Where is he now, papa?” she questioned, going to his side and clasping her hands about his arm. “Down at the shop. They carried his father there from the train.” “Why didn't you have them bring him here?” said Mrs. Emory, quickly. “After this I won't listen to a word against either of them. I would like to show the town just how we feel in the matter.”