that her very soul was rendered up to
him, involuntarily, as a woman renders herself but once. That she would
rather have died there, in that flame and smoke, held in his
arms--gathered to his heart--than have lived whatever life of ease and
pleasantness--aye, even of use--with any other! She knew that her
thought, in those terrible moments before he came, had been--not
father's or mother's, only; not her young lover, Paul's; but, deepest
and mostly, his!

CHAPTER XXIX.

HOME.

"The joy that knows there _is_ a joy--
That scents its breath, and cries, 'tis there!
And, patient in its pure repose,
Receiveth so the holier share."

Faith's thought and courage saved the mill from utter destruction.

For one fearful moment, when that forward portion of the loom floor fell
through, and flame, and vapor, and smoke rioted together in a wild
alliance of fury, all seemed lost. But the great water wheel was plying
on; the river fought the fire; the rushing, exhaustless streams were
pouring out and down, everywhere; and the crowd that in a few moments
after the first alarm, and Faith's rescue, gathered at the spot, found
its work half done.

A little later, there were only sullen smoke, defeated, smoldering
fires, blackened timbers, the burned carding rooms, and the ruin at the
front, to tell the awful story of the night.

Mr. Armstrong had carried Faith into one of the unfinished factory
houses. Here he was obliged to leave her for a few moments, after making
such a rude couch for her as was possible, with a pile of clean
shavings, and his own coat, which he insisted, against all her
remonstrances, upon spreading above them.

"The first horse and vehicle which comes, Miss Faith, I shall impress
for your service," he said; "and to do that I must leave you. I have
made that frightened watchman promise to say nothing, at present, of
your being here; so I trust the crowd may not annoy you. I shall not be
gone long, nor far away."

The first horse and vehicle which came was the one that had brought her
there in the afternoon but just past, yet that seemed, strangely, to
have been so long ago.

Mr. Rushleigh found her lying here, quiet, amidst the growing
tumult--exhausted, patient, waiting.

"My little Faithie!" he cried, coming up to her with hands outstretched,
and a quiver of strong feeling in his voice. "To think that you should
have been in this horrible danger, and we all lying in our beds, asleep!
I do