Ten strokes from the deep, deliberate bells.

“There comes Miss Smalley, todillating up to see,” said Bel, excitedly.

“And the people are just rushing along Tremont Street!”

“Can you see? asked Miss Smalley, bustling in like the last little belated hen at feeding-time, with a look on all sides at once to discover where the corn might be.

“Isn’t it big, O?” And she stood up, tiptoe, by the window, as if that would make any comparative difference between her height and that of Hotel Devereux, across the square; or as if she could reach up farther with her eyes after the great flashes that streamed into the heavens.

Again the smiting clang,—­repeated, solemn, exact.  No flurry in those measured sounds, although their continuance tolled out a city’s doom.

Twice twelve.

“There goes Mr. Sparrow,” said the music mistress, as the watchmaker’s light, unequal hop came over the stairs.  “I suppose he can see from his window pretty near where it is.”

A slight, dull color came up into the angles of the little lady’s face, as she alluded to the upper lodger’s room, for there was a tacit impression in the house—­and she knew it—­that if Miss Smalley and Mr. Sparrow had been thrown together earlier in life, it would have been very suitable; and that even now it might not be altogether too late.

Another step went springing down.  Bel knew that, but she said nothing.

“Don’t you think we might go out to the end of the street and see?” suggested Miss Smalley.

Bel had on hat and waterproof in a moment.

“Don’t you stir, Auntie, to catch cold, now!  We’ll be back directly.”

Miss Smalley was already in her room below, snatching up hood and shawl.

Down the Place they went, and on, out into the broad street.  Everybody was running one way,—­northward.  They followed, hurrying toward the great light, glowing and flashing before them.

From every westward avenue came more men, speeding in ever thickening lines verging to one centre.  Like streams into a river channel, they poured around the corners into Essex Street, at last, filling it from wall to wall,—­a human torrent.

“This is as far as we can go,” Miss Smalley said, stopping in one of the doorways of Boylston Market.  A man in a blouse stood there, ordering the driver of a cart.

“Where is the fire, sir?” asked Miss Smalley, with a ladylike air of not being used to speak to men in the street, but of this being an emergency.

“Corner of Kingston and Summer; great granite warehouse, five stories high,” said the man in the blouse, civilly, and proceeding to finish his order, which was his own business at the moment, though Boston was burning.

The two women turned round and went back.  The heavy bells were striking three times twelve.