Frank and Ned Spencer, together with McGinnis, had worked side by side with the firemen in clearing the mills of the frightened men, women, and children. It was not until after word came that all were out that Frank Spencer and McGinnis were reported to be still in the burning building. Five minutes later there came a terrific crash, and a roar of flames as a portion of the walls and the roof caved in. Since then neither one of the two men had been seen.
There was more—much more: tales of brave rescues, and stories of children restored to frantically outstretched arms; but Margaret did not hear. With terror-glazed eyes and numbed senses she shrank back from the crowd, clasping and unclasping her hands in helpless misery. There Ned found her.
“Margaret, you! and here? No, no, you must not. You can do no good. Let me take you home, do, dear,” he implored.
Margaret shook her head.
“Ned, he can’t be dead—not dead!” she moaned.
Ned’s face grew white. For an instant he was almost angry with the girl who had so plainly shown that to her there was but one man that had gone down into the shadow of death. Then his eyes softened. After all, it was natural, perhaps, that she should think of her lover, and of him only, in this first agonized moment.
“Margaret, dear, come home,” he pleaded.
“Ned, he isn’t dead—not dead,” moaned the girl again. “Why don’t you tell me he isn’t dead?”
Ned shuddered. His eyes turned toward the blackened, blazing pile before him—as if a man could be there, and live! Margaret followed his gaze and understood.
“But he—he may not have gone in again, Ned. He may not have gone in again,” she cried feverishly. “He—he is out here somewhere. We will find him. Come! Come—we must find him!” And she tugged at his arm.