Of what untold comfort are you to the mourner. Cares, that bow the head to the earth at night, seem lighter to the waking thoughts, refreshed, perhaps, by good angels while we sleep. Were there no such sweet forgetfulness of sorrow, could we bear to look upon it long?
[CHAPTER XVI.]
But oh! to him whose self-accusing thought
Whispers: ''twas he that desolation wrought.'
Hemans.
"Fire! fire?" Who starts not at that terrible cry?
The terrified women had scarcely told their tale, before all the men in the "Hargrave Arms" were on their feet, starting into the open air. They soon perceived cause for alarm. Proceeding from that quarter of the village where the houses lay closest together, rose a column of smoke and flame, blown hither and thither by the boisterous wind, which was spreading the red sparks in every direction, tossing them high in the air, and then suffering them to fall on some distant cottage, whose thatched roof rendered it a ready prey.
So rapidly had the fire spread, that several cottages were already burning, and the men ran hither and thither from one to the other in consternation, and uncertain what course to pursue to save their property. All seemed at stake—wives, children, the sick, household furniture, the cherished articles purchased, perhaps, by long and mutual saving before marriage, and therefore doubly dear—and these thoughts occurring to each, confused the movements of all.
But, in the midst of these sudden difficulties, the coolness of the stranger did not desert him. He had followed his companions from the inn, to ascertain the cause of alarm, and he was almost immediately after seen leading his horse. Arresting the attention of old Giles, he enquired—