“It was give to me,” Sarah answered indignantly, “by them as had a right to give it.”

“For no good, I should think,” replied Mrs. Tadman; “what should anybody give you money for?”

“Never you mind; it was mine.  O dear, O dear! if one of the men would only get my box for me.”

She ran to intercept one of the farm-labourers, armed with his bucket, and tried to bribe him by the promise of five shillings as a reward for the rescue of her treasures.  But the man only threatened to heave the bucket of water at her if she got in his way; and Miss Batts was obliged to abandon this hope.

The fire made rapid progress meanwhile, unchecked by that ineffectual splashing of water.  It had begun at the eastern end of the building, the end most remote from those disused rooms in the ivy-covered west wing; but the wind was blowing from the north-east, and the flames were spreading rapidly towards that western angle.  There was little chance that any part of the house could be saved.

While Ellen Whitelaw was looking on at the work of ruin, with a sense of utter helplessness, hearing the selfish lamentations of Mrs. Tadman and Sarah Batts like voices in a dream, she was suddenly aroused from this state of torpor by a loud groan, which sounded from not very far off.  It came from behind her, from the direction of the poplars.  She flew to the spot, and on the ground beneath one of them she found a helpless figure lying prostrate, with an awful smoke-blackened face—­a figure and face which for some moments she did not recognize as her husband’s.

She knew him at last, however, and knelt down beside him.  He was groaning in an agonized manner, and had evidently been fearfully burnt before he made his escape.

“Stephen!” she cried.  “O, thank God you are here!  I thought you were shut up in that burning house.  I called with all my might, and the men searched for you.”

“It isn’t much to be thankful for,” gasped the farmer.  “I don’t suppose there’s an hour’s life in me; I’m scorched from head to foot, and one arm’s helpless.  I woke up all of a sudden, and found the room in a blaze.  The flames had burst out of the great beam that goes across the chimney-piece.  The place was all on fire, so that I couldn’t reach the door anyhow; and before I could get out of the window, I was burnt like this.  You’d have been burnt alive in your bed but for me.  I threw up a handful of gravel at your window.  It must have woke you, didn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, that was the sound that woke me; it seemed like a pistol going off.  You saved my life, Stephen.  It was very good of you to remember me.”

“Yes; there’s men in my place who wouldn’t have thought of anybody but themselves.”

“Can I do anything to ease you, Stephen?” asked his wife.

She had seated herself on the grass beside him, and had taken his head on her lap, supporting him gently.  She was shocked to see the change the fire had made in his face, which was all blistered and distorted.