Suppose that dream meant something after all—that his father and mother and sister would all meet together some day in another world, and that he would be shut out from their company, and left alone. It was likely enough to happen, Phil groaned in his misery. He guessed, if the truth were known, that he and his uncle were suitable companions for each other. He was going to the bad as fast as he could go. And yet he had intended to do well. Miss Crawford had bidden him take heart, and lead a nobler, a more unselfish life. Not in so many words, perhaps, but Phil had understood her meaning and had pledged himself to fulfil her wishes. Here was a fine ending to his grand resolutions! Perhaps, after all, it was not too late. He would go back and take up his life from where he had left it only a couple of hours ago. Most probably his uncle would have forgotten their quarrel, and the bitter words that had been uttered on both sides. And he would try to do better. Ah! If only Millie had not gone! But perhaps God would help him if he asked Him. Miss Crawford believed in God, he knew, and so did Millie. With that thought, he turned his back to the pavement, and with his eyes fixed on the starry sky, he humbly prayed that God would forgive, and bless, and help him. Then, with a heavy heart, he retraced his footsteps. What is the cry which he hears as he once more emerges into the busy Strand? He stands still to listen—"Fire! Fire!" Surely—? O! No, not that; not his work. God forbid! Phil, always fleet of foot, flies like lightning towards home. How dear the place has suddenly become to him! "Fire! Fire!" is still the shout. He is in the midst of a crowd now, but he dives under the elbow of one and pushes aside another with a strength that astonishes even himself. "Fire! Fire!" "Where?" some one asks. "In Swift Street," is the reply. Phil hears, and the words enter his heart like a sword. He is quickly there. Yes, yes, it is, as something had seemed to tell him from that first cry of "Fire! Fire!" Smoke and flames are issuing from the top story of one of the houses—their house. The inmates are rushing from it, and from the neighbouring dwellings, in terrible confusion. Little children, with just a shawl or a blanket wrapped around them, are handed over to the excited crowd; men and women, half dressed, are huddling together with pale terrified faces, or running hither and thither to see that their friends are in safety. Phil makes his way through the throng of people to where a little group are gathered around a man who lies in a half unconscious state upon the ground. "Uncle," shrieks Phil, "I have killed you." But nobody in the excitement and bustle of the moment heeds that bitter cry of remorse. At the familiar voice, Richard Hunt opens his eyes, and says hoarsely: "The little lass! Save her, Phil!" "She is away—at Bournemouth. Don't you remember?" "No, not gone—come back—save her," he replies, and then sinks back exhausted.