lucy carne knocked at granny barnes' door, and waited. she had a little nosegay of flowers in her hand and a plate of fresh fish. almost every day she brought granny something, even if it was only a simple flower, and granny loved her little 'surprises.'

lucy waited a moment, hearing a voice inside, then she knocked again, and louder.

"i do believe mona's reading to her again, and they've forgotten their tea!"

getting no answer even now, lucy opened the door a little way and popped her head in. "may i come in? i don't know what world you two are living in to-day, but i knocked twice and i couldn't reach you."

mona carefully placed the marker in her book and closed it, but reluctantly. miss lester, her sunday school teacher, had given her the marker. it was a strip of ribbon with fringed ends, and with her name painted on it, and a spray of white jessamine. every girl who had joined the library had had one. some were blue, some red, some white, and the rest orange colour. mona's was red. she was glad, for she liked red, and the delicate white flower looked lovely on it, she thought. miss lester had painted them herself, and the girls prized them beyond anything.

mona's eyes lingered on hers as she closed the book. it was rather hard to have to leave her heroine just at that point, and set about getting tea. she did wish lucy had not come for another ten minutes.

granny looked up with a little rueful smile. "i felt it was tea-time," she said, "but i thought mona would like to finish out the chapter, and then before we knew what we were doing we had begun another. it's a pretty tale. i wish you had been hearing it too, lucy. it's called 'queechy.' a funny sort of a name, to my mind."

"'queechy'!—why, i read that years ago, and i've read it again since i've been married. i borrowed it from mother when i was so ill that time. mother had it given to her as a prize by her bible-class teacher. she thinks the world of it. so do i. i love it."

"i'm longing to get to the end," said mona, turning over the pages lingeringly. "there's only three chapters more."

"oh, well, that's enough for another reading or two," said granny. "they are long chapters. it would be a pity to hurry over them just for the sake of reaching the end. we'll have a nice time to-morrow, dearie. i shall be sorry when it's all done."

but mona was impatient. "to-morrow! nobody knows what may happen before to-morrow. something is sure to come along and prevent anybody's doing what they want to do," she said crossly.

granny looked at her with grieved eyes. "i think you generally manage to do what you want to, mona," she said, gravely. "i don't think you can have profited much by what you've read," she added, and turned to lucy.

mona laid down her book with a sigh. "it's much easier to read about being good than to be good oneself," she thought.

lucy came in from the scullery with a vase full of water. "i'll have a few nice flowers for you to take to miss lester on sunday, mona, if you'll come and fetch them."

"thank you," said mona, but she looked and spoke glumly. she was still vexed with lucy for coming in and interrupting them. she did not know that lucy came in at meal-times just to make sure that granny had her meals, for mona thought nothing of being an hour late with them if she was occupied in some other way.

"don't trouble about it, if you don't care to have them," lucy added quietly. and mona felt reproved.

"i'd like to," she said, looking ashamed of herself. "miss lester loves having flowers. i'll run up on saturday evening for them, mother. they'll be better for being in water all night."

"that's right. now, i'll cook the fish while you lay the cloth. granny'll be fainting if we don't give her something to eat and drink soon. i should have been down before, but i had to see father off."

"will he be out all night?" granny asked, anxiously. she never got over her dread of the sea at night.

"yes. if they get much of a catch they'll take it in to baymouth to land. the 'buyers' will be there to-morrow. i'm hoping peter'll be back in the afternoon. these are fine whiting. you like whiting, don't you, mother?"

"yes, very much. it's kind of you to bring them. i feel now how badly i was wanting my tea. you'll have some with us?"

"i think i will. i was so busy getting peter off that i didn't have anything myself."

mona laid the cloth with extra care. lucy's vase of stocks stood at one corner. though it was august, the wind was cold, and the little bit of fire in the grate made the kitchen very pleasant and cosy.

"i've got a bit of news for you, mona," said lucy, coming back from putting away the frying-pan. "mrs. luxmore told me that miss lester is engaged. had you heard it?"

"oh, no! what, my miss lester? miss grace?" mona was intensely interested. "oh, i am so glad. who is she engaged to, mother?"

"why, dr. edwards! isn't it nice! doesn't it seem just right?" lucy was almost as excited as mona. "i am so glad she isn't going to marry a stranger, and leave seacombe."

"can it be true! really true?"

"it's true enough. mrs. luxmore told me. her husband works two days a week at mrs. lester's, and mrs. lester told him her very own self. so it must be true, mustn't it?"

mona's thoughts had already flown to the wedding. "we girls in miss grace's class ought to give her a wedding present. what would be a nice thing to give her? and, oh, mother!" mona clapped her hands in a fresh burst of excitement. "i wonder if she will let us all go to the wedding and strew roses in her path as she comes out of the church—"

"it'll depend a good deal on what time of the year the wedding is to be," remarked granny, drily. but mona's mind was already picturing the scene.

"we ought all to be dressed in white, with white shoes and stockings, and gloves, and some should wear pink round their waists and in their hats, and the rest should have blue, and those that wear pink should throw white roses, and those that wear blue should throw pink roses. wouldn't it look sweet? i'd rather wear blue, because i've got a blue sash."

a door banged upstairs, and made them all jump. "why, how the wind is rising!" said lucy, in a frightened voice. she hurried to the window and looked out anxiously. "oh, dear! and i was hoping it was going to be pretty still to-night."

"what i'd give if peter was a ploughman, or a carpenter!" cried granny, almost irritably. "i don't know how you can bear it, lucy, always to have the fear of the sea dogging you day and night!" her own face had grown quite white.

"i couldn't bear it," said lucy quietly, "if i didn't feel that wherever he is god's hand is over him just the same." she came back and stood by the fire, gazing with wistful eyes into its glowing heart.

"but sailors and fishermen do get drowned," urged mona, putting her fears into words in the hope of getting comfort.

"and ploughmen and carpenters meet with their deaths, too. we've got our work to do, and we can't all choose the safest jobs. some must take the risks. and no matter what our work is, death'll come to us all one day. some of us who sit at home, die a hundred deaths thinking of those belonging to us and the risks they are facing."

then, seeing that granny was really nervous, lucy led the talk to other things, though, in that little place, with nothing to break the force of the wind, or deaden the noise of the waves, it was not easy to get one's mind away from either. "i don't suppose it is very bad, really," said lucy, comfortingly. "it always sounds a lot here, but the men laugh at me when i talk of 'the gale' blowing. 'you must wait till you hear the real thing,' they say. but i tell them i have heard the real thing, and it began quietly enough. now, mona, you and i will put away the tea things, shall we?"

"you won't go home before you really need to, will you?" asked granny. "it'll be a long and wearying time you'll have alone there, waiting for morning. oh, i wish it was morning now," she added, almost passionately, "and the night over, and the storm. i do long for rest."

lucy looked at her anxiously, surprised by the feeling in her voice. "why, mother! you mustn't worry yourself like that. it's nothing of a wind yet, and it may die down again quite soon. i think it was a mistake letting you come to live on this side of the road, where you feel the wind so much more. if i were you i'd move up nearer to us the first time there's a place to let. you feel just as i do about the storms, and it's only those that do who understand how hard it is to bear."

granny nodded, but she did not answer. she turned to mona. "wouldn't you like to go for a run before bedtime?" she asked. "the air'll do you good, and help you to sleep."

"i didn't want her to get nervous just before bedtime," she confided to lucy when mona had gone. "i try not to let her see how nervous i get—but sometimes one can't help but show it."

mona did not need any urging. her thoughts were full of miss lester's coming marriage and her own plans for it, and ever since she had heard the news she had been longing to go out and spread it and talk it over.

"patty ought to wear blue, to match her eyes; millie will be sure to choose pink, she has had such a fancy for pink ever since she had that print frock."

but when she reached the quay she met with disappointment. there was hardly anyone there but some boys playing 'prisoners.' certainly it was not very tempting there that evening, the wind was cold and blustery, and both sea and sky were grey and depressing. mona was glad to come away into the shelter of the street.

she looked about her for someone to talk to, but, seeing no one, she made her way home again. it was very aggravating having to keep her great ideas bottled up till morning, but it could not be helped. when she reached home again, lucy was still there, but she had her hat on ready to start.

"i wish you hadn't to go," said granny barnes, wistfully. "i wish you could stay here the night."

lucy looked at her anxiously. "are you feeling very nervous, mother? would you rather i stayed? i will if you wish."

"no,—oh, no," granny protested, though she would have liked it above all things. "i wasn't thinking about myself; i was thinking about you, up there all alone."

"oh, i shall be all right. i am getting used to it. now you go to bed early, and try to go to sleep, then you won't notice the weather. you are looking dreadfully tired. good night—good night, mona."

"i think i'll do as lucy said," said granny a little while later. "i'm feeling tireder than ever in my life before. if i was in bed now this minute, i believe i could sleep. if i once got off i feel as if i could sleep for ever." and by half-past eight the house was shut up, and they had gone to bed.

granny, at least, had gone to bed, and had fallen almost at once into a heavy slumber. mona was more wakeful. the news of her teacher's engagement had excited her, and not having been able to talk it out, her brain was seething with ideas.

she put out her candle, drew back her curtains, and looked out into the gathering darkness. an air of gloom and loneliness reigned over everything. far out she could see white caps on the waves, but not a boat, or vessel of any kind. the sky looked full and lowering.

with a little shiver mona drew her curtains again and relighted her candle. as it flickered and burnt up, her eyes fell on the book so reluctantly put aside until to-morrow.

"oh, i wish i could have just a little read," she thought, longingly. "just a look to see what happens next."

she took up the book and opened it, glancing over the chapters she had read—then she turned to the one she and granny were going to read to-morrow. her eyes travelled greedily over a few paragraphs, then she turned the page. presently she grew tired of standing, and sat on the side of the bed, lost to everything but the pages she was devouring hungrily. the wind blew her curtains about, the rain drove against the panes, but mona did not heed either. she had drawn herself up on the bed by that time and, leaning up against her pillows, was reading comfortably by the light of the candle close beside her. she was miles away from her real surroundings, and driving with fleda in england, and no other world existed for her.

her eyelids growing heavy, she closed them for a moment. she didn't know that she had closed them, and imagined she was still reading. she was very surprised, though, presently, to find that what she thought she had been reading was not on the open pages before her. she rubbed her tiresomely heavy lids and looked again; then she raised herself on her elbow and began again at the top of the mysterious page, and all went well for a paragraph or two. fleda was walking now alone, through a grassy glade. oh, how lovely it was—but what a long walk to be taking in such a high wind. mona forced open one eye, and let the other rest a moment. "the trees sometimes swept back, leaving an opening, and at other places," stretched—stretched, yes it was, "stretched their branches over,"—over —but how the wind roared in the trees, and what a pity that someone should have had a bonfire just there, the smell was suffocating—and the heat! how could she bear it! and, oh, dear! how dazzling the sun was— or the bonfire; the whole wood would be on fire if they did not take care! oh, the suffocating smoke!

mona—or was she fleda?—gasped and panted. if relief did—not—come soon—she could not draw—another breath. she felt she was paralysed— helpless—dying—and the wind—so much—air—somewhere—she was trying to say, when suddenly, from very, very far away she heard her own name being called. it sounded like 'mona'—not fleda—and—yet, somehow she knew that it was she who was meant.

"oh—what—do they—want!" she thought wearily. "i can't go. i'm——"

"mona! mona!" she heard it again; her own name, and called frantically, and someone was shaking her, and saying something about a fire, and then she seemed to be dragged up bodily and carried away. "oh, what rest! and how nice to be out of that awful heat—she would have—died—if—if—" then she felt the cold air blowing on her face, the dreadful dragging pain in her chest was gone, she could breathe! she opened her eyes and looked about her—and for the first time was sure that she was dreaming.

the other was real enough, but this could only be a dream, for she was lying on the pavement in the street, in the middle of the night, with people standing all about staring down at her. they were people she knew, she thought, yet they all looked so funny. someone was kneeling beside her, but in a strange red glow which seemed to light up the darkness, she could not recognise the face. her eyelids fell, in spite of herself, but she managed to open them again very soon, and this time she saw the black sky high above her; rain fell on her face. the red glow went up and down; sometimes it was brilliant, sometimes it almost disappeared, and all the time there was a strange crackling, hissing noise going on, and a horrible smell.

by degrees she felt a little less dazed and helpless. she tried to put out her hands to raise herself, but she could not move them. they were fastened to her sides. she saw then that she was wrapped in a blanket. "what—ever—has happened!" she asked sharply.

"there has been an accident—a fire. your house is on fire—didn't you know?"

"fire!—our house—on fire!" mona sat upright, and looked about her in a bewildered way. could it be that she was having those dreadful things said to her. she had often wondered how people felt, what they thought— what they did, when they had suddenly to face so dreadful a thing.

"where's granny?" she asked abruptly—almost violently.

there was a moment's silence. then patty row's mother said in a breathless, hesitating way, "nobody—no one knows yet, mona. nor how the house was set on fire," she added, hastily, as though anxious to give mona something else to think of. "some say the wind must have blown down the kitchen chimney and scattered some red-hot coals about the floor."

"but 'twas the top part of the house that was burning first along," broke in old tom harris. "mrs. carne saw smoke and fire coming through the bedroom windows and the roof." "the top part!—where granny was sleeping!" mona threw open the blanket and struggled to her feet. "oh, do stop talking, and tell me—hasn't anyone found granny?" her question ended almost in a scream.

"they—they're getting her——" said somebody. the rest preserved an ominous silence.

"there's a chain of men handing up buckets of water through the back garden," said someone else, as though trying to distract her thoughts. "they'll soon get the fiercest of the fire down."

"but—but think of granny. we can't wait for that. she's in the fire all this time. she was in bed. hasn't anyone been to her? oh, they must have. they can't have left her—an old woman—to save herself!"

mona was beside herself with the horror of the thing.

"they tried," said mrs. row, gently, "but they were beaten back. mrs. carne tried until she was—there! she's gone—mona's gone!" her explanation ended in a scream. "oh, stop her—somebody, do, she'll be killed."

"it'd have been sensibler to have told her the truth at once," said tom harris, impatiently. "she's got to know, poor maid. now we shall have another life thrown away, more than likely, and mrs. carne with a broken leg, and nobody knows what other damage."

slipping through the crowd in the darkness, mona, in a perfect frenzy of fear, dashed into the house. all she was conscious of was hot anger against all those who stood about talking and looking on and doing nothing, while granny lay helpless in her bed suffocating, perhaps burning; were they mad!—did they want granny to die?—didn't they care, that no one made any attempt to save her. through the semi-darkness, the haze of smoke and steam, she heard people, and voices, but she could not see anyone. the heat was fearful, and the smell of burning made her feel sick.

she groped her way stumblingly through the kitchen. the furniture seemed to her to be scattered about as though on purpose to hinder her, but she kept along by the dressers as well as she could. they would be a guide, she thought. "poor tea-set! there will be little of it left now." her fingers touched something soft. lucy's stocks, still in the vase. at last she found herself at the foot of the staircase. the door was closed. someone had wisely shut it to check the rush of air up it. after a struggle, mona managed to open it again, and fell back before the overpowering heat and the smoke which choked and blinded her. she clapped her hand over her nose and mouth, and crouching down, dragged herself a little way up, lying almost flat on her face, she was so desperate now with the horror of it all, beside herself. ahead of her was what looked like a blazing furnace. all around her was an awful roaring, the noise of burning, broken into every now and again by a crash, after which the red light blazed out brighter, and the roaring redoubled.

how could anyone live in such a furnace. an awful cry of despair broke from her parched throat. "granny!" she screamed. "oh, granny! where are you? i can't reach—" another crash, and a blazing beam fell across the head of the burning staircase.

"granny! oh, god save my——" but before she could finish she was seized by strong arms and lifted up, and then darkness fell on her brain, and she knew no more.