The night was indeed a long one to him. At first excitement and happiness kept him awake and unconscious of time and discomfort. But he soon felt how weary and hungry he was, for he had eaten nothing since his slight supper on Sabbath evening. The heat of the fire perceptibly lessened as the rain began falling, and without his coat Dennis was soon chilled to the bone. On every side he heard moans of discomfort, and he knew that he had far more reason to endure patiently than many near him. He tried to keep himself warm by walking around, but at last he grew too weary for that, and sat, a patient, cowering watcher, at the head of Christine’s weird couch, listening sadly at times to the pitiful crying of little children and the sighs and groans of older sufferers.
At last the light of welcome day streaked the eastern horizon, and Christine opened her eyes in a bewildered way, but, on seeing him swaying backward and forward with half-closed eyes, sprang up and said, “And have you sat and watched there all the long night?”
“I hope you feel rested and better, Miss Ludolph,” he replied, startled from drowsiness by her voice.
“It has been raining, too. I fear you are wet through. Oh, how much you must have suffered on my account!”
“I imagine you are as wet as I am, Miss Ludolph. This has been a very democratic experience for you. We are all about alike in this strange camping-ground.”
“No; your kindness made me quite comfortable. Indeed, I never slept better. And you, without any coat or shelter, have watched patiently hour after hour.”
“Well, you did as much for me yesterday afternoon, so we are quits.”
“I think there is a great difference,” she said. “And remember what a watcher I made; I let those drunken creatures run over you.”
“I don’t see how you could have helped it,” said he, laughing. “That you should have cared for me as you did was a favor that I never expected,” he added, blushing.
She blushed too, but made no reply; at the same time she was vexed with herself that she did not. Dennis, with a lover’s blindness, misunderstood her silence, and thought that, as a friend, she was more grateful than he could wish, but he must speak in no other character.
Then he remembered that it would be dishonorable to urge his suit under the circumstances; it would be a source of inexpressible pain to her, with her strong sense of obligation, to put aside expressions of his deeper regard, and he resolved to avoid if possible any manifestations of his feelings. While she was dependent upon him he would act the part of a brother toward her, and if his human love could never find its consummation, he would bear his loss as patiently as possible. But in spite of himself a tinge of sadness and restraint came into his manner, and Christine sighed to herself, “If he only knew, and I only knew, just the truth, how much happier we might be!” There was a general movement now in the strangely assorted multitude. The fire had swept everything away so completely on the north side that there were not hot blazing ruins to prevent crossing. Accordingly men came pouring over, looking for their families. On every side were cries of joy on recognition of those whom fear and terrible forebodings had buried under the blackened remains of once happy homes. But mingled with exclamations of joy were sobs and wails of anguish, as some now realized in the lapsing hours that absent members of the household were lost.
Christine looked in vain for her father; at last Dennis said: “Miss Ludolph, do you feel equal to the effort of crossing to the west side? You must be faint with hunger, and there only can we hope for help.”
“Oh, yes! let us go at once, for your sake as well as mine;” for she saw that his long fasting and great fatigue had made him very haggard.
They urged their way across the burned district as fast as their exhausted state would permit, carefully avoiding burning brands that still lay in the street.
“I hope you will have patience with me in my slow progress,” said Christine, “for I feel as I imagine Rip Van Winkle must have done, after his twenty years’ nap.”
“I think you have borne up heroically, Miss Ludolph,” said Dennis, warmly.
“Oh, no! I am not in the least heroic, but I confess that I am very hungry. I never knew what hunger was before. Well, I can now appreciate what must often be the condition of the poor, and hope not to be so forgetful of them hereafter.”
“I am glad to hear you say that you are hungry, Miss Ludolph, for it proves that with care you will rally after this dreadful exposure, and be your former self.”
“Ah! Mr. Fleet, I hope I shall never be my old self again. I shudder when I think what I was when you awakened me that dreadful night.”
“But I have feared,” said he, ever avoiding any reference to his own services, “that, though you might escape the fire, the exposure would be greater than you could endure. I trembled for you last night when it began to rain, but could find no additional covering.”
“No brother could be kinder or more thoughtful of me,” she said, turning upon him a glad, grateful face.
“That is it,” thought Dennis. “She hints to me what must be our relationship. She is the Baroness Ludolph, and is pledged to a future that I cannot share.”
But as he saw her gratitude, he resolved all the more resolutely not to put it to the hard test of refusing his love. A little later he unconsciously sighed wearily,
