The child lay back with a sigh of relief.

"Yes," he said, "very bad. We got to 'em though; we found 'em an'
brought 'em out. I carried the things; they couldn't 'a' got along
'ithout me."

The carriage had gone down again and brought up a load of those who
had suffered from the fire. They were blackened, burned, disfigured,
but living. One of them, in the midst of his agony, cried out:--

"Whaur is he? whaur's Robert Burnham? I'll gi' ma life for his,
an' ye'll save his to 'im. Ye mus' na let 'im dee. Mon! he done
the brawest thing ye ever kenned. He plungit through the belt o'
after-damp ahead o' all o' them, an' draggit us back across it, mon by
mon, an' did na fa' till he pullit the last one ayont it. Did ye ever
hear the like? He's worth a thousan' o' us. I say ye mus' na let 'im
dee!"

Over at the breaker office there was silence. The doctor and his
helpers were there with Robert Burnham, and the door was closed. Every
one knew that, inside, a desperate struggle was going on between life
and death. The story of Burnham's bravery had gone out through the
assembled crowds, and, with one instinct and one hope, all eyes were
turned toward the little room wherein he lay. Men spoke in whispers;
women were weeping softly; every face was set in pale expectancy.
There were hundreds there who would have given all they had on earth
to prolong this noble life for just one day. Still, there was silence
at the office. It grew ominous. A great hush had fallen on the
multitude. The sun dropped down behind the hills, obscured in mist,
and the pallor that precedes the twilight overspread the earth.