“It is wonderful!  I only wish I could see a little better,” murmured Miss Lavinia, who was short, and buried in the crowd.

“Why not stand on this barrel?” suggested Bradford, holding out his hand.

“It’s full of garbage and ashes,” she objected.

“Never mind that, they are frozen hard,” replied Bradford, poking the mass practically.

Three pairs of hands tugged and boosted, and lo!  Miss Lavinia was safely perched; and as there were more barrels Sylvia and I quickly followed suit, and we soon all became spellbound at the dramatic contrasts, for every now and again a fresh pile of Georgia pine would be devoured by the flames, the sudden flare coming like a noiseless explosion, making the air fragrantly resinous, while at the same time the outer boundaries of the doomed lumber yard were being draped with a fantastic ice fabric from the water that froze as it fell.

As to the firemen! don’t talk to me of the bygone bravery of the crusaders and the lords of feudal times, who spent their lives in the sport of encamping outside of fortresses, at whose walls they occasionally butted with rams, lances, and strong language, leaving their wives and children in badly drained and draughty castles.  If any one wishes to see brave men and true, simply come to a fire with Evan and me in our New York.

We might have stood there on our garbage pedestals half the night if Horace Bradford had not remembered that he must catch the midnight express, glanced at his watch, found that it was already nearly half-past ten, and realized that he had left his grip at Miss Lavinia’s.  Consequently we dismounted and pushed our way home.

As we were half groping our way up ill-lighted West Tenth Street Martin Cortright paused suddenly and, after looking about, remarked:  “This is certainly a most interesting locality.  That building opposite, which has long been a brewery, was once, in part at least, the first city or State’s Prison.  How often criminals must have traversed this very route we are following, on their way to Washington Square to be hanged.  For you know that place, of later years esteemed so select, was once not only the site of Potter’s Field, but of the city gallows as well!”

No one, however, joined more heartily than he in the merriment that his inapropos reminiscence caused, and we reached home in a good humour that effectually kept off the cold.

“Did you succeed in buying the gown?” Horace Bradford asked Miss Lavinia, as he stood in the hall making his farewells.

“Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten.  Here is the package only waiting for your approval to be tied,” and she led the way to the library.

Bradford touched the articles with his big fingers, as lovingly as if he were smoothing his mother’s hair, or her hand.

“They are exactly right,” he said heartily, turning and grasping Miss Lavinia’s hand, as he looked straight into her eyes with an expression of mingled gratitude and satisfaction.  “She will thank you herself, when we all meet next summer,” and with a happy look at Sylvia, who had come to the library to see the gifts, and was leaning on the table, he grasped bag and parcel, shook hands all round, and hurried away.