There has been a fire in the grate, for the night air is chilly, and society ladies are not too warmly clad. How it happened no one may discover, but Dorothy in passing must have gone too near, and her train swept into contact with the fire. At any rate she was ablaze almost in a flash, her light drapery burning like matchwood. Not from her lips did that shriek issue, for sudden fright palsied her voice; but the attendant gave the alarm; she, regardless of her own safety, threw herself bodily on the lovely young girl and beat out the fire with her hands. In this she is successful, but the flames communicated to her own clothes. She throws Dorothy from her, just as the gentlemen rush in through the doorway. Aleck takes in the situation at a glance. He snatches up a costly rug from the floor. Without a second’s delay he throws this around the blazing form and effectually extinguishes the fire. She looks into his face, and Aleck is amazed to see so little fright there--indeed, he imagines he can detect a smile upon the countenance of the poor lady. As for Cereal, he has rushed to his daughter and stamps upon the still smoldering train. “Great Heavens! Dorothy, tell me, my darling, how did this happen--are you injured?” he cries. “An accident, father. I am not hurt in the least, but I might have been burned to death only for her devotion, her bravery. Oh! I fear she has been dreadfully injured! Leave me--go to her, father. I will send for Dr. Edison, who has just gone home.” Relieved of his sudden fears, and with a spasm of gratitude welling up in his heart, Samson Cereal turns to the woman who at the risk of her own life has saved his daughter. She looks him in the face now; it is the first time, for hitherto she has not attracted his attention. As he looks he seems to be electrified--carried back nearly thirty years and face to face with the romance of his youth. “Good God! Adela--you!” falls from his lips. Suffering intense pain as she must be, the divorced wife still smiles. “Ah, Samson! I have prayed for this hour, when Heaven would let me wipe out the past. I have saved her for you, this lovely child whom the greedy flames would have ruined for life. God has heard my prayer. I have not long to live. Welcome death, now!” Then she swoons. The old man is thoroughly aroused. He will not even allow Aleck to carry her over to the bed, but raises the slight form himself. God alone knows the rush of holy feelings that sweep over him as his arms encircle this fragile body, once as dear to him as the apple of his eye. They see his tear-dewed eyes and must guess the rest. He places a tender hand upon her brow and smooths back the white hair. John has come in, after seeing a young lady home, and as the old man notices him he beckons. “My son,” he says brokenly, “the story of the bitter past can no longer be withheld from you. There is your mother!”