"Call, Peggy!" whispered Margaret. "I have no voice."
Even as she spoke, a window in the second story was thrown up, and there stood Grace herself, very pale, but quiet as usual.
"There's a young woman faint here," she said. "Too much smoke. The stairs are gone. Is there a ladder, Peggy? Ah, rope! Much better. Clever child! When I say three—throw!"
Oh, the good days on the Western farm, when little Peggy, on her rough pony, scampered here and there, lassoing the sheep and calves, and getting well scolded in consequence! Oh, the other good days at school, where nerve and muscle learned to follow the quick eye, so that thought and action seemed to flash together!
The rope hissed upward like a flying snake, but a cloud of smoke drove past the window, and the outstretched hands missed it. Again it flew, and this time it was caught, drawn up, and knotted tight inside the window.
"Now if I had a ladder!" muttered Peggy.
"I saw one," cried Margaret; "I am sure I did. Wait!"
She flew off, and returned followed by a boy with a ladder. It proved short by several feet.
"Oh, what shall we do!" cried Margaret.
"Hold the ladder steady!" said Peggy. "She'll see to that end, and I can manage this. Hold it!"