from the glare of light; there were plenty of kindly hands and pitying
words, for most of the crowd had gathered about him; even the men who had
brought the engine followed, for their efforts to subdue the fire were
perfectly futile.

They laid him down on the stiff frozen grass by the roadside; but Molly
clung so tightly about his neck, that the preacher could scarcely move
her to put his hand upon Tom's heart; Helen lifted the little girl, and
laid her own wet cheek against the child's.

The group of men and women stood awed and silent about the prostrate
form, waiting for John to raise his head from the broad, still breast;
when he lifted it, they knew all was over.

Whether the shock of the heat and tumult, coming upon the stupor of
intoxication, and paralyzing the action of the heart, or whether a blow
from a burning plank, had killed him, no one could know. The poor sodden,
bloated body was suddenly invested with the dignity of death; and how
death had come was for a little while a secondary thought.

"He is dead," John said. "He has died like a brave man!"

He stood looking down at the body for some moments, and no one spoke.
Then, as there was a stir among those who stood near, and some one
whispered that Mrs. Davis must be told, the preacher looked away from
the dead man's face.

"Poor soul," he said, "poor soul!"

A few light flakes of snow were beginning to fall in that still,