Once landed at the Southwark wharf, the party was soon within the sheltering doors of the twin houses.  Gertrude came forth to meet them, anxious solicitude written on every line of her face.

The first care was for the poor lady, for whom they had made ready a pleasant and airy room.  She was carried thither, and Dinah followed to see what was her condition; and although she was exceedingly weak, she was not unconscious, and so long as she had her husband beside her holding her hand, she seemed to care nothing for the strangeness of her surroundings, or for the perils through which she had passed.

“Verily, I think she will live,” said Dinah, when Janet had fed her with some of the strong broth which had been made in readiness.  “She looks not greatly worse than when she started up in bed in her own house with the consciousness that there was fire near.  I had not thought so tender a frame could go through so much of peril and hardship; but methinks her lord’s return was the charm that worked so marvellously for her; for, truly, she had begun to fear him dead.”

Satisfied as to her patient, Dinah allowed herself to be taken care of by Gertrude, who insisted on removing her burned garments, and assuring herself that no other hurt had been done.  It was wonderful what an escape Dinah’s had been, for there was scarcely any mark of fire upon her, only a little redness here and there, but nothing approaching to a severe burn.  She declared that she could not go to bed in the midst of so much excitement; and after telling Gertrude of the wonderful nature of her own escape, she added, with a slightly heightened colour: 

“I would fain assure myself of the welfare of thy brave father, for it may be that he may have sustained some hurt; and if that be so, we must minister to his needs right speedily.  Much depends in burns upon the promptness with which they are dressed.”

Gertrude’s filial anxiety was at once aroused, as well as her warm admiration for her father’s courage and devotion.  Together they sought him out and found him in one of the lower rooms, a plate of food before him, which, however, he had hardly touched.

The moment he saw his daughter, who entered a little in advance, he rose hastily and exclaimed: 

“Tell me how she does.  Has she received any hurt?”

“Lady Desborough?” asked Gertrude; “they all say she—­”

“Nay, nay, child, not Lady Desborough!  What is Lady Desborough to me?  I mean Dinah, that noble, devoted woman, who would not leave her mistress even in the face of deadly peril.  Tell me of her!  Tell me—­”

And here the Master Builder came to a dead stop, and paused for a moment in bashful shamefacedness most unwonted with him, for there was Dinah entering behind his daughter, and surely she must have heard every word.

“Dinah is not hurt, father,” said Gertrude, covering the awkward pause with ready tact; “her escape has been truly wonderful.  She wishes to know whether you also have escaped; for she tells me that you must have faced a sea of flame in order to get to her.”