ing, and seize upon the name-board, and
the shining letters stood out amidst the flames. It could be read by
all. The Consul saw it. There it stood: _Morten W. Garman_. It was the
old Consul's name--his ship--and now what was its fate?

"Look at the young Consul; how pale he is!" said one of the spectators
to his neighbour.

"Where? Where is he? I don't see him."

"He was standing close by the corner window. He looked as pale as death.
I wonder if he was insured?"

But the young Consul lay stretched upon the floor, and had pulled down
the heavy damask curtains with him in his fall.

Miss Cordsen came into the room. When she saw the Consul, she pressed
her hand to her heart, but not a sound escaped her lips. For a moment
she stood collecting her thoughts, then she knelt down, freed the
curtain from his grasp, and lifted him in her long bony arms.

He was not heavy, and she managed to raise herself with her burden. At
this moment her glance fell on the mirror opposite. A shudder passed
through her, and it was with difficulty she kept herself from falling. A
whirlwind of recollections swept through her brain as he lay on her
shoulder; and she bore him along, an aged and withered man. But she
pressed her lips together, and drawing herself up, she carried him along
like a child; and, as all the doors were open, she was able to get as
far as the staircase. There she called to one of the maids, who came to
her assistance.

CHAPTER XVIII.

After Uncle Richard had been driven from the roof of the storehouse, and
could see that all hope was over, he went off to take his turn at the
engines. He worked at the pumps with all his-might and main, as if to
deaden his sorrow; but now and again he looked towards the house and
thought, "Poor Christian Frederick!"

Jacob Worse was directing the operations, and had had the planking,
which surrounded the building-yard on the side where the warehouses lay,
pulled down in order to get room for the engines. He managed to get some
order among the men who were handing the water, and drove the idle
spectators up into the yard near the house. As he happened to pass Uncle
Richard, the latter asked him, "Do you think there is any hope, Worse?"

"No!" answered Worse, in a low tone; "I am working in sheer
desperation."

"So am I," said the _attache_, with a nod; "but think of poor Christian
Frederick."

Just then a murmur went through the crowd, who could read the name of
the ve