III.
The Rain of Fire.
It was August, and rain had fallen on the hot, parched earth.
The bells in the church tower were ringing a muffled peal, and as I listened to the sad, sweet music, I thought of Margot, lonely Margot, who had seen her father laid under the ilex trees, and then gone to visit a distant relative at Château Belair in the West Indies. It was a strange coincidence, but as I thought of her the servant brought in a card, bearing the name, M. Achille Levasseur, beneath which was pencilled:
"Late of Château Belair, and cousin of the late Mademoiselle Margot Revere."
So Margot was dead, had gone to join her loved ones where there are no distinctions between rich and poor.
Stunned, and half incredulous, I told the maid to show him in, and in a few minutes a tall, dark, foreign looking man stood in the bright, flower-scented room which (it being recess), I occupied in Miss Melford's absence.
I rose, bowed, and asked him to be seated, then, with an effort, said:
"M'sieu, I am Gloria, Margot's chum, and chosen sister. Tell me about her."
The story was a short one, we had neither of us a desire to dwell upon the details. The island had been subject to the fury rain of a quenchless volcano. Whole villages had been overwhelmed and buried in the burning lava, and hundreds had met with a fiery death. In the midst of the mad confusion, Margot's calm presence and example inspired the strong, reassured the terrified, aided the feeble, and helped many on the way to safety. How many owed their lives to her, her cousin could not say, but that it was at the cost of her own, was only too terribly true. She had helped her cousin's family on to the higher ground, which ensured safety from the boiling lava, only to discover that one little one had been left behind peacefully sleeping in her cot, the little baby who had been christened Gloria at Margot's desire in memory of me. It was a terrible moment to all but Margot, and to her it was the moment of a supreme inspiration. She dashed down the hill before she could be stayed, though the ground shook under her feet, and the burning sea of fiery rain was pouring down the valley below. She reached the house and seized the infant, and started with frenzied speed to ascend the hill again. Her cousin, who had seen to the safety of the others of his family, had now started out to meet her. They saw each other and hurried with all the speed they could to meet. Within touch a terrific explosion deafened them as the father seized his child, and Margot, struck by a boulder belched from the throat of the fierce volcano, sank back into the fiery sea.
As M. Levasseur ceased, there came through the open window the silvery sound of the minster bells. They were playing the lovely air,