tress was neither grand enough nor far enough from home to
satisfy the wide-stretched benevolence of the philosopher, who sat
down within sight of the flames to work at a new pamphlet, which now
swallowed up his whole soul, on Universal Benevolence.

His daughter, indeed, who happily was not yet a philosopher, with
Mr. Trueman, followed by the maids, reached the scene of distress.
William Wilson, the footman, refused to assist, glad of such an
opportunity of being revenged on Jenkins, whom he called a surly
fellow, for presuming to complain because William always purloined
the best fruit for himself before he set it on his master's table.
Jenkins, also, whose duty it was to be out of doors, had refused to
leave his own work in the garden to do Will's work in the house
while he got drunk, or read the Rights of Man.

The little dwelling of Jenkins burned very furiously. Mr. Trueman's
exertions were of the greatest service. He directed the willing, and
gave an example to the slothful. By living in London, he had been
more used to the calamity of fire than the country people, and knew
better what was to be done. In the midst of the bustle he saw one
woman only who never attempted to be of the least use. She ran
backward and forward, wringing her hands, and crying out in a tone
of piercing agony, "Oh, my child! my little Tommy! will no one save
my Tommy?" Any woman might have uttered the same words, but the look
which explained them could only come from a mother. Trueman did not
stay to ask if she were owner of the house, and mother of the child.
It was his way to do all the good that could be done first, and then
to ask questions. All he said was, "Tell me which is the room?" The
poor woman, now speechless through terror, could only point up to a
little window in the thatch, and then sunk on the ground.

Mr. Trueman made his way through a thick smoke, and ran up the
narrow staircase which the fire had not reached. He got safely to
the loft, snatched up the little creature, who was sweetly sleeping
in its poor hammock, and brought him down naked in his arms: and as
he gave him to the half-distracted mother, he felt that her joy and
gratitude would have been no bad pay for the danger he had run, even
if no higher motive had set him to work. Poor Jenkins, half
stupefied by his misfortune, had never thought of his child; and his
wife, who expected every hour to make him father to a second, had
not been able to do any thing t