The plaited rope had proved treacherous, and broken off midway, dangling its useless length about a yard below the window sill, above which that beautiful white face looked down in a frenzy of despair.
Ethel staggered to her feet; she flung out her arms, she shrieked:
"Come, darling, climb out upon the rope, and drop. I will catch you—I will break the fall."
But Precious scarcely heard. Her senses had deserted her at sight of the broken rope. Ethel saw the dilated blue eyes close again, saw her sister fall backward into the blinding smoke, heard the frenzied yelp of Kay as he sprang upon the window sill, and felt that no earthly power could save her doomed sister now.
She held out her arms to Kay, and shrieked wildly:
"Come to me, Kay, come!"
But the poor beast gave a desolate howl, and sprang back into the room where Precious lay unconscious. Then a great black volume of smoke poured through the window, and from the front of the house Ethel saw the red glaring flame shoot quickly.
"The front of the house is all in flames. No one can save my sister now," she thought. Then something seemed to say in her heart:
"You are to blame. You should have sent her down the rope first. She was so light and small it would have carried her safely, and both would have been saved."
It made her angry, that still small voice of conscience, for she knew that it was a selfish anxiety over her own safety that made her descend first. Moving away she muttered: