“Save her—­her!” Mrs. Maynard cried piteously, “leave me, and see to her, for mercy’s sake!”

George caught the girl in his arms and prepared to make a dash down the staircase.  But he drew back in dismay.  A big piece of the burning banister below them fell with a crash and a shower of sparks to the bottom of the well.

“It is impossible!” he cried.  “Let us see what can be done from one of the windows.”  And the three ran to the end of the corridor farthest away from the fire.  Into a room George dashed, and threw up the window.  It was Mary’s playroom, and it was in this place that she and her governess had been till now too much frightened by the flames and smoke to make a dash for safety.

Alas! there was no way of escape.  The height from the ground was too great; to leap meant certain death.  George gazed frantically down and around, to see if any help was arriving.  Not a soul was to be seen.  Smoke was pouring from almost every window.  The ladies were speechless with alarm when they saw the look of despair on the boy’s face.

“Don’t leave us!” Mary pleaded piteously.

“No, no!” cried George.  “We’ll find a way yet.”  But cheerfully as he spoke, in his heart he almost despaired.

It was but a few seconds the three had been in the playroom, but when they looked out into the corridor again, to their horror they found it blazing, the flames leaping towards them with astonishing bounds, carried along by the evening breeze that had sprung up.  The sight seemed to drive Mrs. Maynard demented.  With a shriek she darted away, sped along the burning passage, and before the boy and girl could realize the situation, she had dashed down the blazing staircase.  The sound of a crash and a fearful scream reached their ears, telling their own tale.  The girl clung to George, her head sank, and she fainted.

Desperate now, the lad placed her on the floor, and, thrusting his head from the window, perceived that he could clamber up the two or three feet of rain spout that ran close by, and gain a position on the roof just overhead.  If he could gain that, he thought he might run to a further wing of the building that seemed at present untouched by the fire.  But the girl, what of her?  He cast his eyes about and descried two or three skipping ropes in a corner.  Hastily he tied them end to end, fastened a portion round Mary’s waist, his movements hastened by the burst of flame that just then shot into the room.  Then clambering desperately to the roof, the rope in his teeth, he got a footing on the parapet, and began to haul up the fainting girl.

Hand over hand he hauled up the cord and its burden.  The child was dangling between earth and sky when suddenly a great shout came from below.  George glanced down, and there, running with up-turned horror-stricken face, was Matthew Blackett.  Help at last!  But had it come too late?

CHAPTER IV