reath was
almost gone.

He gave Margaret to the women, and sank down himself upon the grass; he
could not see, he felt very weak; something was tightening in his
throat. The boy Primus, with great sobs, ran like a deer to the well for
water, and bringing it back, held a cupful to the lips of the blinded
man.

Margaret, though still unconscious, appeared to be unhurt. The skirt of
her dress was burned in several places. The women chafed her hands, and
bathed her face with the fresh water; once she opened her eyes, but
unconsciousness came over her again.

With a crash the northern wing fell in.

"De front'll go nex'," said Primus. "We mus' git 'em 'way from dish
yer."

The women lifted Margaret tenderly, and bore her to the end of the lawn.
Mr. Moore rose on his burned feet, and, leaning on the boy's shoulder,
slowly made his way thither also; their forlorn little group, assembled
near the piled-up furniture, was brightly illuminated by the flame.

Presently the front fell in. And now, as the roar was less fierce, they
could hear the gallop of a horse, in another minute Evert Winthrop was
among them. He saw only Margaret, he knelt by her side and called her
name.

"De _passon_ done it," said Primus,--"de passon! He jess walk right
straight inter de bu'nin', _roarin'_ flameses! En brung her out."

Mr. Moore had not seen Winthrop, he could see nothing now. He seemed
besides, a little bewildered, confused. As Winthrop took his hand and
spoke to him, he lifted his face with its scorched cheeks and closed
eyes, and answered: "There was some furniture saved, I think. I think I
saved a little. Six parlor chairs--if I am not mistaken; and a centre
table--I was sorry about that bookcase."

"Hear de lamb!" said one of the negro women, bursting into fresh tears.

CHAPTER XXXI.

Margaret Harold was sitting on a bench at the East Angels landing. She
was in walking dress; her large hat, with its drooping plumes, made her
face look like that of a Gainsborough portrait. A bunch of ferns which
she had gathered had slipped from her lap to her feet. Carlos Mateo,
very stiff, stood near. It was sunset; a mocking-bird was pouring forth
a flood of notes, rioting in melody, it was marvellous to realize that
such a little creature could produce from his tiny throat matchless
music like this.

Coming down the live-oak avenue appeared the figure of Celestine.

"If you please, Miss Margaret, Mrs. Rutherford has sent me to