But at that moment the flames, till now held under some control, burst from an adjoining window, and caught at the woodwork of the bridge. The father yelled in dismay. “Hurry, little feller, hurry!” he cried. “Get over towards the next house before it is too late.” But a paralysis seemed to have seized the child; he arose, then stopped, and looking wildly about, shook his head. “I cannot,” he cried, “I cannot.” And the woman laughed, and with a hug of her empty arms, seemed to throw her taunts into the space before her. “Are you a demon?” burst from Mr. Sylvester’s lips in uncontrollable horror. “Don’t you see you can save him if you will? Jump down, then, and carry him across, or your father’s curse will follow you to the world beyond.” “Yes, climb down,” cried the fireman, “you are lighter than I. Don’t waste a minute, a second.” “It is your own child, Jacqueline, your own child!” came from Holt’s white lips in final desperation. “I have deceived you; your baby did not die; I wanted to get rid of you and I wanted to save him, so I lied to you. The baby did not die; he lived, and that is he you see lying helpless on the bridge beneath you.” Not the clutch of an advancing flame could have made her shrink more fearfully. “It is false,” she cried; “you are lying now; you want me to save _her_ child, and dare to say it is mine.” “As God lives!” he swore, lifting his hand and turning his face to the sky. Her whole attitude seemed to cry, “No, no,” to his assertion but slowly as she stood there, the conviction of its truth seemed to strike her, and her hair rose on her forehead and she swayed to and fro, as if the earth were rolling under her feet. Suddenly she gave a yell, and bounded from the window. Catching the child in her arms, she attempted to regain the refuge beyond, but the flames had not dallied at their work while she hesitated. The bridge was on fire and her retreat was cut off. She did not attempt to escape. Stopping in the centre of the rocking mass, she looked down as only a mother in her last agony can do, on the child she held folded in her arms; then as the flames caught at her floating garments, stooped her head and printed one wild and passionate kiss upon his brow. Another instant and they saw her head rise to the accusing heavens, then all was rush and horror, and the swaying structure fell before their eyes, sweeping its living freight into the courtyard beneath their feet. XLII. PAULA RELATES A STORY SHE HAS HEARD. “None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed.” —BYRON. In the centre of a long low room not far from the scene of the late disaster, a solitary lamp was burning. It had been lit in haste and cast but a feeble flame, but its light was sufficient to illuminate the sad and silent group that gathered under its rays.