Thirty-nine orphans were kindly taken care of by Mr. R. B. Graham, the visiting agent of the Baldwin Place Home for Little Wanderers, who carried them to Boston, Massachusetts. Some months ago a clever poem in several books, entitled "On the Hills," from the pen of a Nova Scotia lady of excellent reputation as a writer, Mrs. Morton, _née_ Irene S. Elder, was placed in the hands of Wm. Elder, Esq., of the St. John's _Daily Telegraph_, to read. On the day of the fire, he put this manuscript in his safe, for protection. When the safe was opened, the manuscript was found quite legible. The scene of the poem is laid in our sister province, and it is said to contain some genuine touches of true poetry. _Apropos_ of manuscripts, it may be said that Prof. Wm. Lyall, of Halifax, lost a very valuable treatise "On the Emotions," which was burned in Mr. Stewart's safe, King street. Mr. W. P. Dole lost all his sonnets, and his late paper "On Definitions," upon which he had expended a good deal of time. FOOTNOTES: [R] The _Freeman_ will be issued shortly as a daily. [S] Rev. Geo. M. Armstrong preached in Stone Church, (built 1824) and on the Sabbath following the Bishop of Fredericton preached in the same church. CHAPTER XIV. "I went againe to the ruines, for it was no longer a Citty"--the Drive by Moonlight--Through the Ruins--After the Fire--A City of Ashes--The Buried Silver--The Sentinel Chimneys--The Home of Luxuriance--A Recollection--The Moon and the Church--Back Again. Shelley's white-orbed maiden sits in the sky, and already her pale torch is silvering the peaks of the ruins. Let us take a carriage, and drive round the desolate city, slowly and softly, and view the giant wreck which the fire has made. There is no better time than the present. The moon is up, and quietness reigns. It is as light as day. We will drive first to the barrack-ground, and look up the long hills. Three days have passed, and the first excitement is now over. A thousand weary pilgrims have made the journey to this desert of desolation a hundred times since the fire, and vainly dug on the site where their homes once were, for relics, or perhaps something more. Why, look there! it is past midnight, and those three men you see working by that blackened wall, seem so wrapped up in their occupation, that they scarcely speak to one another, or note the presence of any one but themselves. See, they are carrying away the still hot bricks, and throwing into the street bits of iron and charred wood. Look, watch them for a moment--witness how they-- "Dig, dig, dig, amid earth, and mortar, and stone, And dig, dig, dig, among ruins overthrown; Spade, and basket, and pick, the toiling Arabs ply."