“And our burning house and barns! O Nate,” wails Lissa, “those poor, poor horses!” She bows her head again, and for some moments neither speak. “Lissa, Lissa, look up!” cries Nathan suddenly, his voice thrilling with a note of exultation. “Our home is safe! Do you hear? Safe!” Lissa raises her eyes. The smoke has lifted, and to their surprise and joy they see revealed to them the buildings standing, unharmed. The fire, although raging across the road, has let the barrier of only a few feet, the width of one wagon-track, turn its course, and now, passing on, has left only a blackened, smoking trail behind it. It has passed back of the stables, turned by the yards, and left them and the horses untouched. “It is a miracle, Lissa!” says Nathan devoutly, his slow speech giving force to his words. “As soon as the turf cools we can go home,—home—think of it!” But Lissa is weeping hysterically. “What, crying when the danger is over? This is not the time to cry. What is it for, little girl?” “O Nate, Nate—Nate! I—can’t help it! I—I’m—so happy! I—I’m so glad!” she sobs. “There, there, give me the baby. Your nerves are all unstrung, that is certain, and small wonder at it. But what’s this? What’s the matter with your hands? Why, child, they are all blistered and burned. What have you been doing?” “I—I fought the fire,” falters Lissa. “My poor child!” “I beat it back just as long as I could,” she pants. “And divided it, and saved our home! I understand all now,” Nathan answers in broken tones. “No, it was the yards, I think. It was a miracle. I only beat it out up to the road.” “And kept it on that side. But these poor hands must be looked after. Aren’t they paining you?” “I—I haven’t thought of them,” replies Lissa. “How could I when these poor animals and—and our house were in such danger.” CHAPTER XII A NEW MEDIUM “My dear Mrs. Lucien—why, what is the matter?” Mrs. Wylie ran hurriedly to her friend’s side, but stopped, frightened at the unseeing, vacant stare which met her. During the fortnight intervening since the seance she had met her friend daily, but never had seen her as now. Mrs. Lucien sat by a small sewing-table, her hands resting upon it, her eyes gazing vacantly into space. Her expression was uncanny in its fixity, and her hands moved restlessly over the smooth surface before her. Her aspect was that of one whose outer senses were locked and all thought and sight turned inward. The little Dolores, who had opened the door to Mrs. Wylie, resumed her position by her mother, her hands resting in her mother’s lap, her troubled eyes searching her mother’s face.