he supposition that he was in the presence of Death.

"Oh, Ned, Ned!" exclaimed Maggie, unable to repress her grief, "can
you--can you ever forgive me?"

She laid her hand on the fireman's broad breast, and passionately kissed
his brow.

He opened his eyes, and whispered with difficulty, "Forgive you, Maggie?
God for ever bless you." He could say no more, owing to excessive
weakness.

"Come, missus, you mustn't disturb him," said David Clazie, emerging
from behind the curtains at the foot of the bed. "The doctor's orders
was strict--to keep 'im quiet. You'd better go into the other room, an'
your brother likewise. Pr'aps you might send 'im to tell Joe Dashwood
to be ready."

David Clazie, who was more a man of action than of words, quietly, but
firmly, ejected the brother and sister from the little room while he was
speaking, and, having shut the door, sat down at his post again as a
guard over his sick comrade.

"Seems to me it's all up with 'im," observed Sparks, as he stood gazing
uneasily into the fire.

As Mrs Crashington replied only by sobbing, he continued, after a few
minutes--

"Does the doctor say it's all up, Mag?"

"No, oh no," replied the poor woman, "he don't quite say so; but I can't
git no comfort from that. Ned has lost _such_ a quantity of blood, it
seems impossible for him to git round. They're goin' to try a operation
on 'im to-day, but I can't understand it, an' don't believe in it. They
talk of puttin' noo blood into 'im! An' that reminds me that the doctor
is to be here at twelve. Do run round, Phil, to the Dashwoods, and tell
Joe to be here in good time."

"What's Joe wanted for?"

"Never mind, but go and tell him that. I can't talk just now," she
said, pushing her brother out of the room.

Tapping at Joe Dashwood's door, Phil received from a strong, deep voice
permission to "come in." He entered, and found a very different state
of things from that which he had just left. A bright room, and bright,
happy faces. The windows were bright, which made the light appear
brighter than usual; the grate was bright; the furniture was bright; the
face of the clock, whose interior seemed about to explode on every
occasion of striking the hour, was bright--almost to smiling; and the
pot-lids, dish-covers, etcetera, were bright--so bright as to be
absolutely brilliant. Joe Dashwood and his little wife were conversing
near the window, but, although their faces were unquestionably