Running To Waste

Becky’s thoughts ran over and over the recent events; but in the midst of them all this was uppermost: “I’ve killed mother.” Again she swept across the Basin; again clutched at drifting Teddy; again fell splashing in the water; again glided down the stream, heard the roar of the dam, the voice of Harry; but all mixed with this one thought, “I’ve killed mother.” And she buried her head in the sofa, shut her eyes hard, and thrust her fingers into her ears, in vain attempts to shut out the thought. What would become of her? Would she be locked up in jail – hanged? She must be, for it was murder!

Becky was not well skilled in reasoning. She could not have told why this feeling took possession of her; but there was a dim consciousness that she must be an awful wicked girl, and that it was somebody’s duty to punish her for this, and a wild wish that somebody would be quick about it, and have it all over with. In this state she was conscious of the opening of the door, and the presence of some one in the room. There was a light step by her side; a soft hand was placed upon her head.

“Becky, my child, you are making yourself miserable.”

Becky knew that well enough. Why should she be told what she knew so well? It was nobody’s business, any way. Why didn’t people attend to their own affairs? She failed to recognize the voice, and, being in an ugly state of misery, snatched the soft hand from its resting-place, and flung it rudely from her, with her eyes defiantly closed.

Mrs. Thompson did not replace the hand, did not repeat the words. She stood looking at the girl a moment, then passed across the room, and took a seat by the window. This movement set Becky to thinking. Who could it be? It was a kind voice, a warm, soft hand. There was no feeling of punishment in either. Why didn’t the visitor speak again? How rude she had been! Then there came a long pause. She was listening intently for some signs of her visitor’s presence. Hush! No; that was Teddy, snoring. She recognized that; and then – yes, some one was breathing by the window. Who could it be? Some one quietly waiting for her to get over her ugly fit. She felt a pair of eyes were fastened upon her. Wondered if her hair was fit to be seen, if there were any rents in her dress, and – and – O, dear, this was terrible! She would know the worst.

Suddenly she sprang up, and looking across the room, met the loving eyes of Mrs. Thompson; saw a smile wreathing about the lips; saw the arms of the good woman stretched out to her so invitingly, that, without further invitation, she ran into them, and nestled her head among the plaits of Mrs. Thompson’s merino, as if she had an undoubted right there. Then of course, she fell to crying again.

“O, Aunt Rebecca! you’re so good! and I’m so wicked!”

“No, no, pet. I’m a wicked woman for neglecting you so long. But it’s all right now. I have you in my arms, just as I had you when you were a baby; and I don’t mean to let you go. Now tell me what’s the matter.”

“Why, don’t you know? I’ve killed my mother!”

“No, no, pet. Dismiss that fear from your mind. She is very ill; perhaps may never recover; but the doctor says her disease has been a long time coming on.”

“And that I tumbled into the water, got most drowned, and frightened the life out of her,” burst out Becky. “O dear, dear! what will become of me?” And another deluge of tears swept over the placid bosom of Mrs. Thompson.

“Hush, hush, dear child! You were not to blame. Any sudden shock might have caused the disaster.”

“Aunt Rebecca, do you mean to say I am not a bad, wicked girl?”

Becky straightened up with such an air of injured guilt that Mrs. Thompson looked at her in surprise.

“Becky, how old are you?”

“Sixteen, Aunt Rebecca.”

“Quite a young lady, I declare. Now that mother is laid upon a sick bed, the care of the house devolves upon you. Girls of sixteen are usually fitted for that position. Do you feel prepared to attend to those duties?”

Becky hung her head.

“No, Becky, you are not a wicked girl. But it is time for some good friend to show you how you have wasted the powers God has given you. Had you given the same attention to learning to keep house that you have to playing ball and tag, to robbing orchards and shooting the Basin, you would have been ready to take your place at your mother’s bed-side, or to take charge of cooking. You would have gained the good opinion of everybody, instead of being shunned as a tomboy; and you would not then have reproached yourself, as you do now, for being the cause of your mother’s illness.”

“I know it, I know; ’tis all my fault, ’tis all my fault!” sobbed Becky.

“Not altogether your fault, pet. You have had no one to lead you aright. But ’tis time you learned a young woman’s duties. You are quick, intelligent, apt to learn. Will you let me give you a few lessons, Becky?”

“O, Aunt Rebecca, if you don’t hate me, if you will try and make something of me, I’ll never go out doors again as long as I live!”

Mrs. Thompson smiled.

“Plants will not thrive without air, Becky: you shall have plenty of it. Now, dry your eyes, and come with me to see mother.”

“Not now, Aunt Rebecca; I’m not fit. I hope you’ll make something of me; but it’s an awful bad job. One thing I mean to do. I’ll try just as hard as ever I can to do just what you tell me.”

“That’s right, Miss Becky Sleeper; and if you do what that angel woman tells you, you are on the straight road to heaven, I can tell you.”

Mr. Harry Thompson came running into the room.

“Don’t scold, mother. I’ve been listening outside the door for the last five minutes. Let me congratulate you on your promising pupil.”

“I think I can make something of her,” said Mrs. Thompson looking with pride at her handsome son.

“Not without my help, mother. I know all the good points of that sportive genius, for, alas! I helped to train them in the wrong way. So, to make amends, employ me in the good work of training this wandering vine in the proper direction. What do you say, Miss Becky?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Harry,” said Becky, soberly. “Is it some new game you want to teach me? If it is, I can’t learn it, for I’ve promised not to play any more.”

Harry laughed.

“Yes, Becky, ’tis a new game. We’ll call it ‘Excelsior,’ a game which requires work, and not play.”

“Don’t puzzle the child, Harry,” said Mrs. Thompson.

“Child!” echoed Harry. “Sweet sixteen; and yet she’s but a child.”

“You saved my life, Harry,” said Becky, with tears in her eyes. “I don’t know as I ought to thank you for doing it, for Aunt Rebecca says it’s been a wasted life. But I do thank you all the same.”

“Perhaps I’ve brought you into a new life, Becky. I hope I have – the life of usefulness we all should live.”

“Look out, Becky! she’s drifting!” shouted Teddy, in his sleep. “She’s drifting! she drifting!”

He moved uneasily in his sleep, started, rolled off his chair, and drifted on to the floor, with a crash that shook the house.

“Teddy Sleeper, what ails you? Wake up!” cried Becky, running to him, and shaking him. “Don’t you see we’ve got company?”

Teddy rolled over, sat up, and stared wildly about him.

“I don’t care, Becky Sleeper. I ain’t a goin’ to be stumped by a girl, any way.”

Harry Thompson laughed so loud that Teddy sprang to his feet in confusion.

“Stick to that, Teddy, and we’ll make a man of you.”

CHAPTER VIII.
BECKY’S NEW BIRTH

Into the life thus accidentally opened to her, Becky dashed with the same vigor and determination which had characterized her dealings with the sports of tomboyhood.

On the departure of the Thompsons, she marched into the kitchen, and surprised Aunt Hulda by pulling the table into the middle of the floor, spreading the cloth, and arranging the dishes for supper.

“Goodness gracious, child! What’s come to you?” cried the spinster, in astonishment.

“Don’t say a word, Aunt Hulda. I’ve been a bad girl, but I mean to do better. I’m not going to let you do all the work in this house.”

Aunt Hulda looked at the girl uneasily. Was this madcap endeavoring to take the reins out of her hands?

“Indeed! Praps you’d like to be mistress, and order me round.”

“No, indeed, Aunt Hulda; you shall be mistress, and I’ll be maid. It’s little I know, shame on me! but I want to learn; and you know how to teach so well that I shan’t bother you long with my clumsiness, I guess.”

“Well, that’s clever. You’re real handy, too; only you’ve put the knives and forks on the wrong side of the plates.”

“So I have,” said Becky, quickly “changing sides.” “Where are you going now, Aunt Hulda?”

“After wood; the fire’s getting low. It’s got to be chopped, too. But I can manage that.”

“No, you must not. – Here, Teddy, bring in a good big armful of wood; and don’t you never let Aunt Hulda bring another stick.”

Teddy had been standing by the window, gazing, in open-mouthed astonishment, at Becky’s proceedings. He roused himself at her sharp call, and obeyed.

“Guess Becky’s a little out of head,” he soliloquized, in the woodshed. “Got too much water on the brain in the dam.”

Supper finished, Becky washed the dishes, cleared away, and swept the kitchen, under the direction of Aunt Hulda, and then insisted on making bread, after careful directions from the mistress. All this was faithfully reported to Mrs. Sleeper by Aunt Hulda.

“I tell you, Delia, there’s the making of a smart woman in that girl; and it’s coming out fast.”

When bed time came, Becky went in to her mother with a sad face. The idea that she had caused her mother’s illness was so strong upon her, that it could not be easily dissipated. Perhaps it was better so, if it only strengthened her in her determination to achieve success in the new life.

“How do you feel to-night, mother?” said Becky choking down a sob, and laying her hand on her mother’s head, with a caress.

“Happy, Becky, very happy,” said the mother, with a smile. “The light step of a little woman about the house has made me wonderfully contented.”

The “little woman” blushed, then said, with a smile she found it hard to muster, —

“Sick people should not listen. But I’m glad it made you happy, mother. Shall I stay with you to-night?”

“No; Aunt Hulda will take care of me. Good night.”

“Good night, mother” with a kiss. “Don’t worry about me. I mean to try, O, so hard – ”

She could say no more. The tears would come, spite of her efforts to repress them; and she ran from the room.

She slept little that night; the new tenant – thought – rambled strangely about in its unfamiliar quarters, as if uncertain at what task to set itself, in what corner of this little head to find a resting-place.

Mr. Drinkwater was no better the next morning, and Harry Thompson opened the school, as usual. He was gratified, on casting his eyes about the room, to see Becky and Teddy in the places assigned them the day before; and very much surprised, when the religious exercises were concluded, to see Becky rise from her place, and march to the centre of the room.

“Master Thompson, if you please, I was very rude to you yesterday. I want to beg your pardon before all the scholars.”

“Very well, Miss Becky; you were somewhat rude; but this free confession amply atones for it. You are forgiven.”

“I want all the scholars to know, if you please, that after school, when I was told to take my place upon the platform, I jumped out of the window.”

Harry bit his lip. This was just what he didn’t want the scholars to know; and they never would have known how he had been outwitted, but for Becky’s confession. She was altogether too penitent.

“That will do, Miss Becky. You have said quite enough. I shall expect better conduct from you in the future.”

“I mean to try, sir.”

Becky returned to her seat. She did try hard that day; and not only that day, but every day, found her trying, and succeeding, too. She diligently applied herself to the studies assigned her, watched her conduct carefully, and in a very short time Harry Thompson had reason to be proud of his pupil. She gave Teddy a helping hand, also. She was pained to hear the laugh when Teddy blundered; so every night at home Teddy was carefully tutored by his sister for the next day’s task; and in a short time he, too, accomplished wonders.

As soon as the brain was trained to systematized labor, Becky’s sharp eyes traced the difference in her attire and that of the girls about her; and very soon improvement was noticed in this. Mrs. Thompson, whose visits to the brown house were now of daily occurrence, taught her to sew. Material was readily found among the stock of presents the sailor husband had been accustomed to bring his wife, and which had never been made up; and thus Becky was as neat and well dressed a girl as there was in the school. She made quick progress with her studies. In one branch she excelled all – that of drawing. Harry had introduced this as a pleasant study, with no idea that Becky had such a genius for it as she rapidly displayed.

Mr. Drinkwater continued ill all the winter, and Harry kept the school, by his orders; for, contrary to his expectations, Captain Thompson did not come into the school. The shrewd proprietor evidently discovered the trick to bring about a reconciliation, and, with his usual obstinacy, defeated the well laid plan. And so, autumn gave place to winter, and the snow lay heavily on the ground. Winter, in turn, gave place to spring, with all its opening beauties; and school was over.

Harry Thompson stood upon the steps of the school-house, the door locked behind him for the last time, the key in his hand. His scholars had gone; up and down the road he could hear their merry voices, as they wended their ways homeward. But one was left to keep him company – Becky Sleeper. She stood beside him, anxiously watching his troubled face; for the master was looking across the road at the home of his childhood, where he could not now enter. He was bitterly disappointed in his labors; they had not brought about the reconciliation for which he had plotted, and which, for his mother’s sake, he had so longed for. He turned, with a sigh, to Becky.

“Well, little one, school is over.”

“Yes, Harry. It’s been a pleasant time for me. How can I thank you for having been so kind to me, for having taught me so much, and being such a dear, kind friend?”

“Yes, I have been able to do you some good, Becky. My labor has not been fruitless, after all.”

Fruitless! No. One look at the thoughtful face beside him, one glance at the trim figure, might convince him of that. Six months ago a hoiden, to-day a woman; bright, young, beautiful, still; but strong, energetic, persevering, rapidly unfolding the intellectual graces of true womanhood.

He was fond of his pupil; and to her he was a hero – always had been; but for the last six months they had been constantly in each other’s company. Out of school, many of the old familiar ways had been revived. They had ridden, sailed, rowed, even indulged in an occasional game of cricket. At her home he was a constant visitor, that being the established rendezvous for meeting his mother; and mother and son had diligently wrought – quietly, but earnestly – a great change in her life. She knew it, and blessed them for it. These two were very dear to each other, and, without knowing it, were passing beyond the boundaries of friendship into the perplexing maze of love.

“Harry,” said Becky, suddenly, “where does all the money come from?”

“Money, Becky! What money?”

“The money that gets us all we have at home. Mother’s went long ago; and yet we are always well supplied with food and clothing. Does it come from your father?”

“I think it does, Becky. My angel mother possesses a key which unlocks all his treasures; and I suspect that some of them fly across the bridge to your home.”

“I thought so. It isn’t right. Is there not some way in which I could earn money?”

“Well, I don’t know of any. Stay. You might blow the bellows for Fox, the blacksmith, or get employment in the shipyard.”

“O, stop. That’s not what I want. Couldn’t I work in one of the mills?”

“Yes, I suppose you could; but I wouldn’t, at least until after we’ve had a consultation with my angel mother.”

“Then let’s have one, quick. I’m determined to earn money some way; and if you don’t find me something better I will blow the bellows for Mr. Fox.”

“Well, I’ll come over to-night, and we’ll have a grand council of war. Good by, Becky.”

“Good by, Harry.”

He turned up the road, and she stood and watched him as he stepped briskly along, swinging the key in his hand, and whistling merrily.

“He’s just splendid! O, if I was only a man, to follow him into the world! For this life will not content him long. He’s restless now, eager to be at work among men. And he’ll go, too. And, O, dear! how lonesome it will be without him!”

Even then Becky felt a lonesome shadow gliding into her heart with its oppressive weight, felt the tears gathering in her eyes. Then, when he was still in sight! How would it be when he should be far, far away?

Yet she stood and watched as he descended the hill, till he was out of sight; longer still, her eyes fixed upon the spot from which he had vanished, her thoughts shaping themselves into queer notions of the future, in girlhood’s flattering mirror of romance, building bright pictures of renown for him, – her hero, – in which she bore no part.

From this sudden romantic attack she was aroused by the appearance of another figure in the place on which her eyes were fixed. Slowly toiling up the hill came a girl, pale-featured, poorly-clad, deformed, and crippled. With the aid of a crutch she stumped along the path until she reached the school-house; then, with a pleasant nod to Becky, and a sigh of relief, she seated herself upon the steps.

Becky returned the nod, and seated herself by the side of the cripple.

“You seem to have a pretty hard time of it.”

“Do I?” said the cripple, smiling. “Well, I suppose to you, who have two feet to run about on, it does seem hard. But it’s the best I can do, the best I ever could do; and so I don’t mind it a bit.”

“You don’t mean to say that you like being a cripple,” said Becky, in astonishment. “I never could be contented in that way – never!”

“No, I don’t think I like it; but I cannot help it. It must always be so. It’s hip trouble. I only try to make the best of it. The hardest to bear are the hard, grinding pains that come sometimes. O, they are terrible! But they come and go; and after they’re gone I’m real comfortable till – the next.”

“Well, you’re a brave girl, any way,” said Becky. “What’s your name, please?”

“Why, don’t you know Jenny York? I thought everybody knew me. What’s yours?”

“Becky Sleeper.”

“What! the tomboy?”

A dark shadow passed across the face of Becky.

“I was the tomboy, Jenny; but I’ve outgrown that name. I think I’m something a little nearer what a girl of my age should be now.”

“I beg your pardon for speaking so, Becky. I’ve never met you before; but I’ve always heard of you and your – your – ”

“Capers, Jenny. Don’t be afraid. I don’t mind it a bit. Thank goodness, I’ve outgrown all that folly. But tell me, are you Silly York’s sister?”

“Yes. She’s number one, and I’m number two; then there’s Johnny, three, and four and five. They’re little tots, and don’t count for much yet. Silly works for Mrs. Thompson, and I work at the mill.”

“You work! At what mill?”

“The paper mill, sorting rags. It’s profitable business, too. Some weeks I make five or six dollars.”

What a strange meeting! A little cripple earning six dollars a week, and a great, strong, healthy girl, who never earned a cent. Becky could scarcely believe her ears.

“Why, Jenny York, you’re worth a dozen girls like me. I never earned a cent in my life. I wish I could, though.”

“It’s easy enough. Mr. Small wants some help; he told me so to-day. The work is not very clean; there’s plenty of dust to get down your throat, and up your nose, and into your ears. But it never gets into my eyes thick enough to prevent my seeing the wages every Saturday night.”

Jenny York laughed merrily, making it evident that the dust had no effect on her good humor.

“There, I guess I’ve had a good rest. I must be going.”

“Let me go with you,” said Becky, springing up, and assisting Jenny to regain her feet.

“O, thank you! That will be nice. I can put my arm about your waist, if you’ll let me, and you can shoulder the crutch, if you like, and ’twill be a pleasant change for me.”

Warm-hearted Becky quickly adjusted herself to the requirements of her companion, and they started off down the road.

“Do you walk up and down every day, Jenny?”

“O, no. Almost always somebody comes along and gives me a ride. Everybody is very kind to me, and I get along famously.”

Ah, Jenny, if everybody had your cheerful spirit, how much better and brighter the world would become! how pleasantly we should all get along! The hard, grinding times come to all, in different shapes, to be rightly borne in patience; but between the past and the coming are long reaches of level life which the sunshine of a contented spirit can make glad and happy.

That long walk opened a fresh path in the new life to Becky. For two years Jenny York had worked at the mill. She gave her companion a full description of her duties, and eagerly pressed her to come and try her luck. They parted at the door of Mr. York’s house, sworn friends. Becky, refusing an invitation to enter, remembering her charity visit, gave Jenny her promise that the next day should find her at the mill.

So homeward tripped Becky, thanking her lucky stars for this providential meeting, thinking how oddly it had come about that just at the right moment a weak, crippled girl had been able to point out to her the road to independence.

The “council of war” that night deliberated long and earnestly on the question which Becky laid before that body. Harry opposed, Mrs. Thompson hesitated, Becky was resolute.

“I hate to oppose you, Harry, who have been so good to me. But I can earn money there; and it’s high time I did something for the support of the family.”

She had taken the precaution to win Aunt Hulda and her mother to her side before submitting her plan to the others. Aunt Hulda, whose admiration for Becky sometimes was unbounded, had been first consulted. This mark of confidence had won all that remained of Aunt Hulda’s heart, and she readily acquiesced, as she would have done had Becky proposed to shingle the church. The mother had read in the sparkling eyes of her daughter, now so very dear to her, the earnest desire to work and earn, and could not, if she would, disappoint her. Thus thrice-armed in a just cause, Becky met her councillors, and bore off the victory at last.

With these stipulations: she should give just the time daily which had been occupied by her school duties to rag-picking – no more. She should perform her household labors as usual, and be ready at other times for out-door exercise at the will and pleasure of Harry Thompson. His consent could be gained on no other terms. Mrs. Thompson was doubtful of the influences which might be brought to bear upon Becky at the mill, yet could not but admire the spirit she displayed. She hesitated on Becky’s account a while, then smilingly gave her vote in favor of Becky, and the field was won.

The next morning found her at the mill equipped for dusty labor. Mr. Small received her kindly, made a satisfactory bargain with her, and she at once entered upon her duties.

The paper mill was composed of three buildings; the main section, comprising the business office, the machine-room, the pulp-vats, and the bleaching-tubs, was built of bricks. At right angles with this structure, and attached to it, was a flat-roofed wooden building. In the lower story of this were stored rags in bags; from this room they were hoisted to the second story, where they were sorted, then taken to the main building to be bleached. At the end of this building was a low, slant-roofed stable. In the sorting-room from ten to a dozen females were usually employed; and to this section of the paper mill Becky was assigned.

To no pleasant work did Becky set her hands; in no very pleasant companionship did she find herself. With the exception of Jenny York, the “girls” were middle aged and old women, loud-tongued, and very apt to be quarrelsome. At first Becky tried to make friends with all of them; but, finding her overtures met with rudeness, she desisted from further attempts, and drew the closer to the little cripple.

As time passed on, and she grew familiar with her labor, stronger grew her friendship for Jenny. These two made a corner of their own, a little removed from the Babel of tongues. Jenny, rejoicing in the companionship of one so near her age, was always bright and happy. Becky, catching the inspiration of her cheerful spirit, overflowed with mirth and humor, and oft-repeated stories of tomboy adventures made them both merry over their work.

But Becky never lost sight of her independence. She worked gaily, but she worked with a will; and the sight of her wages when Saturday came was a reward of merit dearly prized. Steadily she worked through the hot months of summer, until she could count ninety dollars in her strong-box; and then a sad disaster befell the mill.

The machinery of a paper mill seldom stops, night or day, save for repairs. It was in the month of September that it was necessary to stop for the repair of a broken wheel. The sorting-room, however, was kept in operation.

At twelve o’clock the “girls” repaired to their homes for dinner – all but Jenny York. Occasionally Becky staid to keep her company, but not often, the stipulations with the council requiring her to be punctual to her meals at home. Certainly Jenny fared all the better for this, for Becky’s return always added something nice to her plain fare.

But one day Jenny had a fierce attack of her grinding pains, and all the forenoon she lay upon a couch of bags, and when dinner time came, spite of her wishes, Becky would not leave her. They were alone; Jenny, just recovering, was faint and ghostly white; Becky, bending over her, was bathing her temples, when, suddenly, outside, the cry of “Fire!” was raised. Becky sprang to her feet, to find the room thickening with smoke, coming up through the chinks in the floor. A too common accident in paper mills had occurred. A bag of cotton waste had burst into flames, and the store-room beneath was a furnace of fire. Her first thought was – no thought at all. The instinct of self-preservation took her into the machine-room very quick, and then she thought of Jenny. She ran back to the terrified girl, crying, —

“Don’t be frightened, Jenny. The mill’s on fire; but I’ll save you.”

She stooped and lifted Jenny in her arms. All the “waste” of her early life served her well now. Exercise had made that small frame tough and muscular, and she easily bore Jenny towards the door. But suddenly the iron doors between the two buildings were closed with a crash. Some crazy operative, thinking only of the danger to the main building, had taken this precaution, without looking into the room. Becky dropped her burden, and flew to the doors. She screamed for help; she beat the iron with her fists in vain. Then she ran to the windows on the sides; there were none at the end. But the thick, black smoke, rolling up outside, obscured the light. No escape there; they were walled in on every side. The smoke in the room was so thick it was with difficulty they could breathe.

No escape? Yes, one. Becky cast her eyes aloft. In the centre of the roof was a scuttle, ten feet above her. Lying along the side of the room was a ladder. Becky sprang for it. It was very heavy; but desperation nerved her arms, and it was raised.

All this time Jenny lay upon the floor, watching with wishful eyes the movements of Becky. O, if she only had a little strength now! Becky came to her side, and raised her once more in her arms.

“Now clasp me close, and we’ll soon reach the roof, and be out of this stifling smoke, any way.”

With her heavy burden she toiled up the ladder, rested a moment at the top, then threw up the scuttle, and reached the roof. There she laid Jenny down and ran to the edge. Right and left the smoke was rising in dense volumes; but at the farther end all was clear, and beneath it was the steep roof of the stable. There was her chance for escape. She could drop easily; it was but ten feet. But Jenny! The poor girl would scarce escape without injury. Only a moment she pondered, then ran back to the scuttle, and descended the ladder, at the risk of her life. Near the iron doors the flames were shooting up through the floor, and dancing on the wall. The smoke was stifling. She caught up several empty bags, and quickly regained her place upon the roof.

“Quick, Jenny, quick! Help me to tear these bags to pieces. We must have a rope.”

They tore the bags apart, divided them, with the aid of their scissors, into long, narrow strips; then Becky’s nimble fingers twisted them together.

“Now, Jenny, I’m going to lower you to the shed; and then we’re safe.”

She fastened the improvised rope about Jenny’s waist, and bore her to the edge of the roof. She then passed the rope around the chimney.

“Once more, Jenny. Slide over the roof, and hold on to the rope.”

The rope slid through Becky’s hands, and Jenny was upon the roof below. Then the brave girl, casting loose the trusty cord, advanced to the edge of the roof, and, supporting herself a moment by her hands, dropped beside her friend. None too soon; for, while she clung there, up through the scuttle appeared the flaming head of the advancing column of fire.

It was still ten feet from the stable to the ground, and no time to be lost.

“Slide down the roof, Jenny, and drop again. I’ll hold you; never fear.”

She stretched herself flat upon the roof, with the rope in her hands. Jenny slid down, and dropped as directed. But now a new danger to Becky arose: the cord had become entangled in her dress; and, as Jenny descended, she found herself being dragged down the roof. But she held all the tighter to the rope, fearing the shock to Jenny, should she fall, more than the danger of being herself plunged headlong from the roof. Faster and faster they went; she was nearing the edge; she must go over. No. Suddenly the cord slacked. Jenny had touched the ground. She dropped the cord, clutched the gutter with all her strength, her body swung round, and she dropped to the ground, very ungracefully, but unhurt.