"Oh then, dear Amy, let us go to them," she said; and, in a quick but concise manner, she explained how the springs of the couch might be altered, so as to render the carriage of it more easy.
The counterpane was then laid closely over, and a shawl placed over Amy's face, and the stranger and Martin, carrying the couch, proceeded carefully to leave the house—Mabel, bending over her sister, and soothing her at every step, while she placed herself in the way of anything which was blowing towards them, seemingly forgetful of her own safety; but, though nothing shielded her, she passed through the fire entirely uninjured.
Occupied as all were, each with his separate interests, few could resist a feeling of admiration for the beautiful girl, who, in her own simple neighbourhood, had won so much of the love of those around her.
Bending over the couch, which the stranger and Martin bore between them, her hair blown in wild disorder about her face, which shewed a thousand mingled feelings, as she sometimes turned, shrinking, from the terrible scene around her, to which she had so suddenly awakened—sometimes, looking up in strange bewilderment, but always, with out-stretched hands, placing her unprotected figure between the loved child, and the sparks and timbers, which were repeatedly blown across the road; she looked like some wild and beautiful spirit of the storm, which it had no power to harm. The uneasy motion gave the greatest anguish to poor Amy, who, though usually so patient, uttered shriek after shriek of agony, which pierced the hearts of those who hurried round in the vain hope of affording assistance. At every turn they took, fresh torturing cries broke from the little sufferer, who, agonised with pain, and terrified at the scene around her, lost every power of self-control.
Entirely overcome by the cries, of the poor little sufferer, Mabel entreated them to stop, and rather to lay her on the road side, than take her further; Martin, who, though a bold, and not an over humane man, looked pale and sick with the duty he had undertaken, readily suggested that they might place her in the lodge, which had long been deserted by its owner—an old woman—who had taken refuge with the children at the Manor House.
To this the stranger consented; and, after some little difficulty, they contrived to lay her in the old woman's room.
"It is the hardest night's work I've ever had," said Martin, as he turned away. "I'll go and send some one to her, sir, as will do more good than I can."
Poor Amy's shrieks had been heart-rending when they laid her down; but shortly afterwards, they subsided into a low moaning sound.