“Mrs. Benson,” said Phronsie, laying a hand on the thin shoulders, “there isn’t a moment to lose, for I cannot be away from Grandpapa. I must go back at once, and you must go with me; come.”
“The Lord forgive me for keeping you,” said the old lady, staggering to her feet; “now, deary, I’m ready.”
“You better put your dress on,” said Phronsie.
“No, deary; I’ll not wait for anything, or keep you a minute longer. I’ll go as I am.” She glanced back around the room, as if bidding everything good-by; then picked up a little picture on the table, and tucked it into her bosom.
“We must take this,” said Phronsie, pulling out the life-preserver quickly.
“Yes,” said the little old woman with a shiver.
“And you better lock your door,” said Phronsie, “and take the key, Mrs. Benson.”
“All right, deary,” said the old woman with another good-by glance. They were on their way to Phronsie’s stateroom, when suddenly the cry arose, “Fire! Fire!” and a heavy body staggered by them, pushing them to right and to left, as he lunged against each stateroom door with a thud, screaming, “Fire! Fire!”
“Oh, hurry, hurry, Mrs. Benson!” exclaimed Phronsie, helping her along. The little old lady sank helplessly to the floor.
“Oh, I can’t, deary!” she moaned; “it’s struck me here,” laying her hand on her heart.