"Thank God," passed Mrs. Valentine's lips.
"Wait, Nan! Don't go! It must be a chimney, and more of it may fall."
"Then you're not to go either," declared Nan.
"I will only look-out." She opened the door of the drawing room, which was on the first floor, over the dining room—the back of the house being given up to bedrooms,—and came face to face with her father, hurrying upstairs.
"All right? Nobody hurt?" he called. "Mother safe? That's a mercy! One of the biggest mercies I ever had to do with! Not a soul in the back of the house! Must have been killed if—just look here!"
A cry escaped from Prue, and Nan shrieked outright, as Mr. Valentine flung open the door of the bedroom, across the passage. On that side, the house was a wreck. Almost the whole stack of chimneys had crashed downward, breaking through floor after floor, till the basement was reached by a mighty mass of bricks and broken beams, flooring, ceiling, furniture, all jumbled together. Above, the sky was visible through the rent roof; below yawned a cavern.
"And nobody hurt?" asked the gentle voice of Mrs. Valentine, who had followed her daughters.
"Not a soul. The servants were in front."
"But I should have been behind in another moment," Nan said, in awe-stricken tones. "I was just going into the downstairs back bedroom! I should have been underneath all—that!"
"Hush! Don't talk of it now!" whispered Prue, seeing her mother's cheeks whiten.