A thunder-peal from the retreating storm drowned my words. She grew white, and would have fallen had I not caught her and supported her to a chair.
"Give me—a few moments," she gasped, "and I'll be—myself again. This shock is awful. Why, we would all have burned up—had you not put the fire out," and her eyes dilated with horror.
"We have no time for words," I said, brusquely. "Here, take this brandy, and then let us do everything in our power to save life. I scarcely know what to do, but something must be done. If we can only do the right thing, all may yet be well."
In a moment the weakness passed, and she was her brave, quiet self once more.
"I won't fail you again," she said resolutely, as she tried to force a little brandy between Mrs. Yocomb's pallid lips.
"You are a genuine woman," I replied heartily, as I chafed Mrs. Yocomb's wrists with the spirits; "I know how terrible the ordeal has been for you, and most young ladies would have contributed to the occasion nothing but hysterics."
"And you feared I would."
"I feared worse. You are morbidly timid in a thunder-storm, and I dreaded your learning what you now know beyond measure."
"You were indeed burdened," she said, looking at me with strong sympathy.
"No matter. If you can keep up and suffer no ill consequences from this affair, I believe that the rest will come through all right. After all, they are affected only physically, but you—"