," she said, raising her head.

"Shall we be burned to death?" shrieked Joy. "Gypsy, Gypsy, shall we be
burned to death?"

A huge, hot branch flew into the gully while she spoke, hissing as the
other had done, into the pool. The glare shot deeper and redder into the
forest, and the great trees writhed in the flames like human things.

The two girls caught each other's hands. To die--to die so horribly!
One moment to be sitting there, well and strong, so full of warm, young
life; the next to lie buried in a hideous tangle of fallen, flaming
trunks, their bodies consuming to a little heap of ashes that the wind
would blow away to-morrow morning; their souls--where?

"I wish I'd said my prayers every day," sobbed Joy, weakly. "I wish I'd
been a good girl!"

"Let's say them now, Joy. Let's ask Him to stop the fire. If He can't,
maybe He'll let us go to heaven anyway."

So Gypsy knelt down on the rocks that were becoming hot now to the
touch, and began the first words that came to her:--"Our Father which
art in Heaven," and faltered in them, sobbing, and began again, and went
through somehow to the end.

After that, they were still a moment.

"Joy," said Gypsy then, faintly, "I've been real ugly to you since
you've been at our house."

"I've scolded you, too, a lot, and made fun of your things. I wish I
hadn't."

"If we could only get out of here, I'd never be cross to you as long as
ever I live, and I wish you'd please to forgive me."

"I will if--if you'll forgive me, you know. Oh, Gypsy, it's growing so
hot over here!"

"Kiss me, Joy."

They kissed each other through their sobs.

"Mother's in the parlor now, watching for us, and Tom and--"

Gypsy's sentence was never finished. There was a great blazing and
crackling, and one of the trees fell, swooping down with a crash. It
fell _across_ the ravine, lying there, a bridge of flame, and lighting
the underbrush upon the opposite side. One tree stood yet. That would
fall, when it fell, directly into the corner of the gully where the
girls were crouched up against the rocks. And then Joy remembered what
in her terror she had not thought of before.

"Gypsy, _you_ can climb! don't stay here with me. What are you staying
for?"

"You needn't talk about that," said Gypsy, with faltering voice; "if it
hadn't been for me you wouldn't be here. I'm not going to sneak off and
leave you,--not any such thing!"

Whether Gypsy would have kept this resolve--and very l