When all the children had been removed and the little creatures marshaled together in the big empty house opposite, one alone was found to be missing—the little one placed under the care of Sister Angela.
"The baby!" she cried, aghast. "Oh, what shall I do? It is up in my room!"
"My dear," returned the elderly sister who shared Sister Angela's labors, "I fear that it is too late, that nothing can be done. See, the whole house is wrapped in flames. I am sorry, Heaven knows, but I fear that we can do nothing."
"I must—I must at least try!" Sister Angela was wringing her hands frantically. "Oh, sister, I could not live and know that—that the child was intrusted to my care. God forbid that I should be the cause of a little child—one of Christ's little ones—losing its life!"
It seemed fanatical, for the babe was a sickly little creature, and could not live long at best; but the face of Sister Angela—white as marble—was set with a resolute look. It was evident that she would not be persuaded from her purpose.
"I must go!" she cried, wildly; "I dare not stay behind. Let me go, sister, and if—if I never come back, remember that I died in doing my duty!"
"May God and the saints have you in their holy keeping!" said the sister, solemnly. And the martyr disappeared within the flame-wrapped building. For a moment the sister gazed after the vanishing figure, then, white and horror-stricken, she started to follow her.
"I can not stand here quietly and see her go to certain death," she cried—"I can not do it."
But as she entered the burning house the black smoke engulfed her, and the fiery flames drove her back. Gasping, smothering, suffocating, she fought her way out into the open air once more, and fell in a huddled heap upon the ground in a dead swoon.
Through the horrible smoke and flames the heroic sister made her way. It seemed as if she would never reach the attic.