The room in which she sat was the first floor front, looking out upon Church Alley, and she saw a little ragged girl lingering outside. The girl looked hungry, and Nansie, with her baby in her arms, ran down-stairs, and from the house, and gave the poor girl two-pence, which was all the money she had in her purse. The girl scudded away to the cook-shop, and Nansie went back to her room.
"There are so many," she said, addressing the baby again, "so many hundreds--ah! I am afraid, baby, so many thousands--worse off than we are; ever so much worse off, my darling pet. For they haven't got papa, have they? and they haven't got you! But the idea of my thinking that we are anything but well off, when we are going to be as happy as the days are long! I ought to be ashamed of myself, oughtn't I? You mustn't tell papa that I ever had a thought of repining, or it would grieve him. You must know, baby--I hope you are listening properly, sweet, with your great beautiful eyes so wide open, and looking so wise as you do--you must know, baby, that you have the very best and noblest papa that a baby ever had or ever could have. And he is coming home, and you must be very, very good, or you will frighten him away!"
Then she sang the child asleep, and sat in the dusk musing happily with her baby in her lap.
Suddenly she started to her feet with a look of alarm. She smelled fire. Snatching up her baby she ran into the rooms in which fires had been burning, but all was safe there, and she saw no cause for alarm. She was standing in the sitting-room looking about in her endeavor to account for the smell when a cry of "Fire!" from the adjoining house lent wings to her feet, and the next moment she was in the court, with a number of people about her in a state of great excitement. As to the cause of her alarm there was no doubt now. Tongues of flame darted from the windows, and instantaneously, as it seemed, slid into Mr. Loveday's, shop. Hustled this way and that, and pressing her baby close to her breast, Nansie was so distracted that she could not afterwards give an intelligible account of what she saw; except that there appeared to be thousands of people thronging into Church Alley and being thrust back by the police, that the air was filled with flame and smoke and wild cries, that women were wringing their hands and screaming that they were ruined, that fire-engines were dashing up the narrow path, and firemen were climbing on to the roofs of the houses, and that, turning faint and reeling to the ground, she was caught by some humane person and borne to a safe house, where she and her baby received attention. She was unconscious of this kindness for some little while, and when she came to her senses Mr. Loveday and Timothy were bending over her. Timothy's face was quite white, and he was in a state of great agitation, but Mr. Loveday was composed and grave. The people in the room were saying it was a shame that the police would not allow him to go to his burning shop, but he, in answer, said that they were right in preventing him.
"What good could I do?" he said. "I should only be a hinderance. My great anxiety was for you, Nansie, and your baby, and when I heard you were here I came on at once. You must have received a terrible fright, my dear. You were not hurt, I hope?"
"No," she answered, she was not hurt, and she marvelled at his composure. Some other person in the throng was commenting audibly upon his calmness, and received for answer the reply from a neighbor that Mr. Loveday must be well insured.
"No," he said, turning to the speakers, "I am not insured for a penny."
They were surprised to hear this bad news, and poured condolence upon him.
"Uncle," whispered Nansie, pulling his head down to hers, "will it hurt you very much?"
"That has to be seen, my dear," he replied, with a cheerful smile.