"In Swift Street," is the reply.
Phil hears, and the words enter his heart like a sword. He is quickly there. Yes, yes, it is, as something had seemed to tell him from that first cry of "Fire! Fire!"
Smoke and flames are issuing from the top story of one of the houses—their house. The inmates are rushing from it, and from the neighbouring dwellings, in terrible confusion. Little children, with just a shawl or a blanket wrapped around them, are handed over to the excited crowd; men and women, half dressed, are huddling together with pale terrified faces, or running hither and thither to see that their friends are in safety. Phil makes his way through the throng of people to where a little group are gathered around a man who lies in a half unconscious state upon the ground.
"Uncle," shrieks Phil, "I have killed you." But nobody in the excitement and bustle of the moment heeds that bitter cry of remorse.
At the familiar voice, Richard Hunt opens his eyes, and says hoarsely:
"The little lass! Save her, Phil!"
"She is away—at Bournemouth. Don't you remember?"
"No, not gone—come back—save her," he replies, and then sinks back exhausted.
With a bound Phil gains the door of their house, from which smoke is now rapidly issuing. Eager hands are put forth to hold him back, but before they can prevent it, he is rushing up the narrow staircase in frantic haste. Hotter grows the air as he ascends. He can scarcely breathe now. O the cruel flames that lick around him! With a desperate struggle, he reaches the last flight. What is this bundle on the topmost stair? It is she—Millie in her little white night-dress; her long hair floating down her back, her small hands folded in prayer.
"'Tis I—Phil," he shouts. "I'll save you, Millie."