No sooner said than done.  By the aid of a good clasp-knife Matthew severed the cords and secured his little sister, her weight, however, as it came upon him, almost knocking him from his perch.  But he held desperately, and in another moment had Mary on the branch beside him.  Then George, throwing his legs apart, suddenly loosed his hold of the branches and dropped also astride of the bough, which he grasped tight with both hands.  He swung round and hung from the branch head downwards.  But the next minute he had righted himself, and was ready to help with Mary.

The rescue was complete.  To guide the child along the branch, towards the middle of the tree, and then to lower her from limb to limb of the old yew was mere play to the two boys.  The three dropped the last four or five feet to earth just as a man rushed forward with a great cry, to clasp in his arms the fainting girl.

“God is merciful!” he ejaculated.  It was Squire Blackett, who had arrived just in time to see his beloved child saved from an awful fate.

For a few moments father and children clung to each other.  When at length they looked round to express their gratitude to the plucky rescuer, he was nowhere to be seen.  Seeing a great crowd of the Blackett pitmen arrive with a run, George had felt that he could be of no more use, and slipping into the wood had made for home.  He wanted no thanks, and moreover the brig was to sail at four in the morning, at which time the tide would serve.

“He’s gone—­George has gone!” cried Matthew.

“We can never repay him,” murmured Mr. Blackett.  “We must go on to see him at the earliest moment in the morning.”

When Mr. Blackett, with Matthew and the rescued Mary, drove early next day to the Fairburns’ house, it was only to learn that George had sailed for London some hours before.  There was no help for it, and all they could do was to overwhelm the father and mother with words of gratitude and praise.  They informed the Fairburns that by the exertions of the men the library and its contents had been saved; the rest of the mansion was left a wreck.  Mrs. Maynard had been drawn from the mass of burning rubbish at the foot of the staircase, and was now lying between life and death.

George had had a bad quarter of an hour at the parting from his parents, but by the time the vessel felt the swell of the open sea he was full of spirits again.  The sea voyage, even in a dirty collier, was a delight.  Then there was London the wonderful at the end of it, and he had long desired to see the great capital of which he had heard and read so much.