"We are trapped," cried Ethel wildly. "She has fired the house and gone. But we shall escape. Come, dear." She drew Precious to the window, and climbed upon the sill. "I will go first; you follow." She grasped the rope, and swung outward, her heart beating wildly, her eyes watching the face of Precious as it leaned forward against the awful background of smoke and flame. The small pale face, like a snowdrop, the luminous blue eyes, the aureole of golden hair, made Precious look angelic. Ethel felt herself rushing through the cold March air, and--suddenly she shot down wildly, and fell on the wet ground where the thick spongy turf broke the severity of the fall. Safe! But an awful cry escaped her lips. The plaited rope had proved treacherous, and broken off midway, dangling its useless length about a yard below the window sill, above which that beautiful white face looked down in a frenzy of despair. Ethel staggered to her feet; she flung out her arms, she shrieked: "Come, darling, climb out upon the rope, and drop. I will catch you--I will break the fall." But Precious scarcely heard. Her senses had deserted her at sight of the broken rope. Ethel saw the dilated blue eyes close again, saw her sister fall backward into the blinding smoke, heard the frenzied yelp of Kay as he sprang upon the window sill, and felt that no earthly power could save her doomed sister now. She held out her arms to Kay, and shrieked wildly: "Come to me, Kay, come!" But the poor beast gave a desolate howl, and sprang back into the room where Precious lay unconscious. Then a great black volume of smoke poured through the window, and from the front of the house Ethel saw the red glaring flame shoot quickly. "The front of the house is all in flames. No one can save my sister now," she thought. Then something seemed to say in her heart: "You are to blame. You should have sent her down the rope first. She was so light and small it would have carried her safely, and both would have been saved." It made her angry, that still small voice of conscience, for she knew that it was a selfish anxiety over her own safety that made her descend first. Moving away she muttered: "Why should I run the risk of my life for her? I tried to save her, and if she had not been so cowardly I would have succeeded. She will perish, but it is not my fault." Why did she not run and spread the alarm? Some man might be found who would be brave enough to scale the window and bring out the unconscious girl. But Ethel moved away, going backward, watching with fascinated eyes the burning building, her sister's funeral pyre. Shrieks began to fill the air from the occupants of the shanties around, just discovering the fire. A crowd began to gather. Why did not the retreating girl pray the people to rescue her sister? A tempting devil had recalled to her mind her sister's words of admiration for Lord Chester a little while ago--her longing for just such a splendid lover.