“Well, I don't know as I feel much worse about myself than I do about poor Mr. Evans. Why, I've got the ticket in my pocket now that he gave me for the Wednesday matinee! I do wonder how he's gettin' along! I guess they've got you to thank, if they're alive to tell the tale. What _did_ you do to get that woman out alive?” Lemuel looked blankly at her, and did not answer. “And Mr. Evans too! You must have had your hands full, and that's what I told the reporters; but I told 'em I guessed you'd be equal to it if any one would. Why, I don't suppose Mrs. Evans has been out of her room for a month, or hardly stepped her foot to the floor. Well, I don't want to see many people look as he did when you first got him out of the house.” “Well, I don't know as I want to see many more fires where I live,” said her nephew, as if with the wish to be a little more accurate. Jerry asked Lemuel to watch Mrs. Harmon's goods while he went for a carriage, and said sir to him. It seemed to Lemuel that this respect, and Mrs. Harmon's unmerited praises, together with the doom that was secretly upon him, would drive him wild. XXIV. The evening after the fire Mrs. Sewell sat talking it over with her husband, in the light of the newspaper reports, which made very much more of Lemuel's part in it than she liked. The reporters had flattered the popular love of the heroic in using Mrs. Harmon's version of his exploits, and represented him as having been most efficient and daring throughout, and especially so in regard to the Evanses. “Well, that doesn't differ materially from what they told us themselves,” said Sewell. “You know very well, David,” retorted his wife, “that there couldn't have been the least danger at any time; and when he helped her to get Mr. Evans downstairs, the fire was nearly all out.” “Very well, then; he would have saved their lives if it had been necessary. It was a case of potential heroism, that contained all the elements of self-sacrifice.” Mrs. Sewell could not deny this, but she was not satisfied. She was silent a moment before she asked, “What do you suppose that wretched creature will do now?” “I think very likely he will come to me,” answered Sewell. “I dare say.” The bell rang. “And I suppose that's he now!” They listened and heard Miss Vane's voice at the door, asking for them. Mrs. Sewell ran down the stairs and kissed her. “Oh, I'm _so_ glad you came. Isn't it wonderful? I've just come from them, and she's taking the whole care of him, as if he had always been the sick one, and she strong and well.” “What do you mean, Lucy? He isn't ill!” “Who isn't?” “What are you talking about?” “About Mr. Evans--”