She stood still by the pool for a long minute, her heart beating very loud, the pulses throbbing in her ears as it does after running. Very keenly she was peering into the dark at the long lines of ruined walls, seeing nothing at first, but by and by catching glimpses of a tiny, moving light. It stopped, vanished, reappeared, and moved on before she could be certain that she really saw it. At last it came nearer, moving along past the door that David had used, slipped over the tumbled wall, even showed double for a second in the shattered old mirror. She was trying to speak, to cry out, but she could not find her voice, could only stare, fascinated, quaking inwardly with the thought that the light, after all, might be something unearthly. But as it progressed farther toward the end of the house where the fire had raged fiercest, the sense of danger brought her to her senses at last. “Stop,” she cried frantically. “It is not safe there. Stop, come back.” She had called a second too late. There was a sound of rending walls and tumbling bricks, a crash, a startled cry and then a groan. She rushed across the grass, could find no place to climb over and ran up and down wildly, seeking a point of vantage where she might scramble across. A new sound caught her attention, for flying feet were coming up the path. “Oh, David, David is it you?” she cried, in an overwhelming rush of relief. “I can’t climb up, I can’t reach him.” “You are not to try it, it is not safe,” David ordered sternly, setting his foot on the first big block of stone even as he spoke. “I am going where you go,” she replied and evidently he realized it was no time for argument. “Then this is the best way over. Here, give me your hand, and be careful of that loose beam.” They scrambled over the summit and, amid a shower of sliding bricks, slipped down on the other side. A dark figure lay stretched upon the stones, moving a little and still holding a flickering, lighted candle. It was Michael. “Yes, Miss Betsey dear,” he affirmed cheerfully, when they had at last brought him to recognize who they were, “and I’ve a broken leg I’m thinking from the way it feels by not having any feeling at all. And will you hold up the candle and see what is running down my face?” “Oh, Michael, Michael, what were you doing, how could you be so foolish?” Betsey reproached him; “your head is cut and what is running over your face is blood.” She began, forthwith, to try to tie it up with her handkerchief. “Then glory be to all the Saints,” was Michael’s unexpectedly joyful reply; “there is nothing that will break the charm of ill luck like the letting of blood. It will all go well now.” Betsey looked helplessly at David. Was the poor old man gone out of his wits entirely? “Don’t you know better than to risk your life over such nonsense? Won’t you ever learn better, Michael?” David said severely, although the pathetic broken figure on the stones was one to call forth only pity.