ornamentation-which ran round the whole of that part of the house passing just below Harcourt's window. There was scarcely room for a man's foot to rest upon it, and the attempt to walk along it, at that great height from the ground, seemed absolute madness; but with the help of the stout rope which he held, Raymond determined not only to attempt, but to try to lead Harcourt back by that means to the ladder. The risk to them both, and to himself most especially in the first instance, would be simply terrible, but it was the last and only chance for Harcourt's life; and Raymond did not hesitate, although there was the great additional peril of the ladder catching fire while one or both of them were upon it. From the moment that Estelle had said to him "Go!" all doubt and vacillation had vanished from Raymond's mind, and he flung his whole powers and energy into the attempted rescue with a determination, a coolness, and an indomitable bravery, which won unbounded admiration from the crowd, who now only wished to hold him back from what seemed a most desperate venture. Yet all rushed forward to obey him when his voice, clear and commanding, rung out with an order to some of the men to help him in rearing the longest ladder on the ground they had, against the wall at the point he indicated. There were a number of ladders of various sizes lying about, which the servants had brought when the first alarm was given, in the hope that they might be useful. One was found sufficiently long to reach the point on a level with Harcourt's window. The wall against which it was placed was now little more than a shell, for the whole interior of the building was a mass of flame, and access to Harcourt in that way was utterly impossible. Raymond desired two of the men to hold the ladder firm at the bottom, so long as they could do so without injury from the flames, which were rapidly advancing. Then, flinging off his boots, and twisting the coil of rope round his arm, he sped up the wooden steps that were so likely to feed the flames, till he reached a position where he was on a line with the window he had to reach. The instant Tracy Harcourt saw him, he shrieked out to him with every token of the most abject terror, adjuring him to save him by many a sacred name that had long been unfamiliar to his lips. Raymond made not the smallest answer, though he noted, with that strange minutenesss of observation which is common to men in moments of great peril, that his enemy held the papers for which he had risked his life strapped tight round his waist by a belt. While Harcourt continued his frantic cries, Raymond was steadily engaged in fastening one end of the rope which he held to the ladder, taking care to make the knots absolutely secure. Then, calmly and firmly, he raised himself, and placed his foot on the stone ledge, which was so frightfully narrow, that but for the slight support he could give himself by tightening the rope, it would have been

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impossible for him to crawl along - digging his fingers into every cavity which the crumbling cement between the stones afforded, and turning his face close to the wall, that he might not see the terrible space between him and the ground, which must ensure his being dashed to pieces if he fell. It was an awful passage from the ladder to the window, but mercifully short; and as he drew near to Harcourt he saw that he was in imminent danger of being clutched by the outstretched hand of the frantic man, with the inevitable result that he would be thrown off his balance and dashed to the ground.

At this sight Raymond's nerve almost failed him, but he rallied himself with a tremendous effort, and shouted out to Harcourt in a voice of thunder, which the trembling crowd below could hear even above the roaring of the fire, "Draw back your hand; if you lay so much as a finger on me, I leave you to your fate. Stretch your arm down by your side; do not stir an inch; obey me, or perish!"

Like an automaton the shuddering man obeyed; the clutching hand feil by his side. With terrified eyes riveted on Raymond, he waited his commands, neither speaking nor moving. He watched his rescuer step on to the window-sill beside him, and then fasten the end of the rope to a strong iron bolt, which held it securely, and rendered it a tight though slender railing from the spot where they stood. While he did this, Raymond looked down to Harcourt's feet, and saw that he wore light halfboots, such as men often use for the evening.

"Kick off your boots," he said, imperiously; and Tracy, completely dominated, did as he was ordered. Then Raymond stepped back on the stone ledge, and grasping the rope with one hand, held out the other to Harcourt.

"Hold by the rope with your right hand,” he said. "Grasp mine with the left, and follow me steadily, one foot before the other; both feet cannot rest on the ledge at once. Be cool, be firm, and come!

"Oh, I dare not!" shrieked Harcourt; "I shall fall; I shall be dashed to the ground; I shall die !"

"Coward!" thundered Raymond. "Will you not more certainly die where you stand? It is your sole chance of life! You shall come!" And by an almost superhuman effort he compelled him to mount on the ledge, and then himself moved onward, dragging Harcourt by the hand. The very extremity of his peril now made the terror-stricken man advance, his eyes closed, his feet mechanically treading in Raymond's steps, while he clung to him and to the rope, and at last in safety they reached the ladder; but the moment their hands thankfully grasped it, a terrible cry rose up to them from the men below, "The ladder has caught fire! Quick! quick! come! It will break down! We cannot hold it! Come! come!"

"Go first, Harcourt," said Raymond, drawing

Harcourt greedily seized the chance so generously given. He almost threw Raymond off the ladder in his anxiety to pass him, and began to descend rapidly, with his preserver following, considerably higher up. The ladder began to shake ominously. Hot blasts of flame came rushing up, and scorched their faces and hands. When Harcourt was within about ten feet of the ground he felt it give way, and sprang off, falling unhurt on the grass. But the next instant the burning ladder fell with a tremendous crash, bearing Raymond with it, from so great a height that all who saw the terrible fall believed he must infallibly be killed. There was a rush from the crowd to the spot where Raymond's motionless form lay in the midst of the burning fragments of the ladder. But before any one of them had reached it, a dark slender figure had flown, as on winged feet, to his side, and was kneeling down close to him, heedless of the flames leaping up from the broken wood that surrounded him. Hugh Carlton was among the first to follow Estelle, and finding it in vain to attempt to drag her away from Raymond, to whom she clung with a silent desperation that could not be overcome, he set the men to clear away the wreck of the ladder from around her, and then bent down by her side to ascertain whether he yet lived, whom, in her extremity of anguish, she seemed little likely to survive-if he had indeed been crushed to death in the dreadful accident which had befallen him. It was hard to say whether he still breathed. His helmet had fallen off, showing his fine face deadly white, where it was not scorched and blackened by the fire, and he was perfectly insensible, while his limbs were twisted under him in a manner which inevitably betokened most serious injury. Estelle had already loosened the coat round his chest and throat, and was supporting his head on her arm, while the others stood helplessly round, not knowing what ought to be done, when suddenly there was a welcome cry from those on the outside of the circle, "The doctor! here is the doctor!" And so it was that the village surgeon just at this juncture came on the ground. The news of the fire had reached him in his own house, and he had at once got out his dog-cart, and driven to Carlton Hall, to offer his services if he could be of any use. His arrival was most opportune, as he at once took charge of all the arrangements, and gave his directions with energy and promptitude. He lifted Raymond out of

"I hope so, but I cannot tell. It is impossible to make any examination into his state where he lies. He must be removed at once. I can do nothing here."

The doctor turned quickly to Hugh. "We cannot risk taking him far," he continued; "the lodge would be the nearest place. Can he go there?"

Yes, certainly," exclaimed Hugh. “The gatekeeper and his wife are in the grounds. I will send them to get a bed ready at once.”

He ran off for the purpose; and the doctor, going towards the heap of furniture which had been saved from the house, selected a light couch that once had stood in Kathleen's boudoir, and had it brought close to Raymond, who was then lifted up with great care by some of the men, and placed upon it.

Estelle took off the cloak she wore, and laid it over the insensible form, in spite of the doctor's remonstrances. She seemed not to hear or to heed anything that was said to her; but, pale and silent, resembling rather a white marble statue than a human being, she took her place at the head of the couch, and moved along close beside it as it was slowly borne away.

The doctor was following, when Jenkins, the butler, caught him by the arm. "Sir," he exclaimed, "I wish you would look to Mr. Carlton; he seems in a sad state!"

The possessor of that which had once been Carlton Hall had sunk back into a stupefied condition so soon as he saw that Harcourt was safe and already standing calmly beside him.

"Where is Mrs. Carlton?" said the doctor, when he had felt his pulse.

"At Lord Veremount's, the nearest of our neighbours," said Harcourt.

"Then let Mr. Carlton be put into my dog-cart, and driven there at once. He is only overwhelmed by the shock, and requires care and quiet. Some one must go with him."

NXIOUS times! Markets down! Gloomy enough for anybody, you say, Herbert. When is the general depression going to end, you ask? Well, it is certain that you are only the representative of the common talk by road or rail just now in your lugubrious lamentations. It might be as well to ask though, first, what Divine law or promise there is that things should always be up in England? Prosperity, like sunshine, is seasonal; and we must learn to live and be happy without sunshine if we are to be worthy of the title of wise men. Yes, that is all very well, you say; but think of the fearful strain upon multitudes who have to keep up appearances-who must do that. Here, again, Herbert, I fail altogether to see the law of the matter; or, if you like the expression better, the eternal fitness of the thing that you call appearances. No sophistry deserves, as a mere air-bag as it is, such swift puncturing as this. Is it not manifest that, amid all this talk about anxious times, the multitude are just as extravagant as ever? Look, for instance, at the German artisan, or the Genevan ditto, if you like, and at the French peasantry, and then contrast them with the working-classes, so called, to begin with, in England. Oh, take care, you say; that is not a popular subject, and somebody may be listening! Well, let somebody listen, and answer the query instead of quibbling at the speaker. We have had in England for a considerable time busy commerce and high prices, but are the working-classes any richer? I know that a considerable sum is invested in savings-banks, but it is what is called a mere song when compared with the vast revenues earned. Contrast savings-banks with public-houses, and then look at results! Now, Herbert, I am not a teetotaller, and so do not mistake me; but I am an earnest temperance man, and it positively staggers me to think that the British public have drank more than the National Debt, that is to say £800,000,000 worth of intoxicating drink, in eight years! Think of that, and then ask how much of this is actual extravagance. Surely more than three-quarters of it is so, upon the most liberal calculation. That is to say, that from a moderate man's point of view, we waste £75,000,000 a year upon not only useless but injurious drinking. What cant it is to talk of necessary poverty and want in the presence of suh alarming waste as this. So unpopular, however, is the subject, that the leading writers of England touch very tenderly on this dark spot in the history of the most drunken nation under the

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sun. If this is not, to take the very lowest ground, EXTRAVAGANCE, I know not what is. But I tell you another thing, Herbert: national extravagance is seen in the waste of expenditure in all classes of society, in the infatuated way in which they mortgage to-morrow, and so defraud themselves of that true peace of heart which is worth more than all mere outward show. Nothing wears and wastes the mind like pecuniary anxiety; and extravagance often means begging, borrowing, or stealing; remember that! Extravagance may be seen in parks and public places, in all the follies of gregarious fashion. Men and women follow each other, in questions of dress, into the most alarming excesses of expenditure. The tally-man tempts the hearts of the humbler people by shawls and dresses at extravagant prices to be paid for weekly; and concerning the better-to-do classes, just ask what the cost of ordinary garments are now, compared with what it used to be? Fashion is everything, taste comparatively nothing. Look at the ridiculosity of ladies' dresses behind: there you will see some dozen yards of expensive and utterly useless silk, twisted up into a set of loose sacks, without grace, without meaning, save that there exists a cumbrous heap of material bunched up with bows! As in architecture, decoration is vile if it is overloaded, and unless it brings out the lines of beauty in the building; so in dress, ornament is vulgar unless it is subordinate to form and feature. Bonnets, too, are becoming not protective, not simple and really elegant, but unrealities, and mere ribbon and featherstalls! But certainly they are most extravagantly expensive, none can doubt that. Then take young men: how little is there to be found amongst them of the economy and careful consideration of responsibility in gift, and culture, and service! They must have their clubs, and their expensive cigars, and their luxurious diet. Parents now have the mania for elevating their families, not by education, and culture, and character, but by newest fashion and "higher" circles, and affected mannerism of conversation. They do not teach self-restraint, and economy, and prudence. A flavour of aristocratic association is more desired by a certain set of people than the honourable approbation of conscience and the respect which comes from Christian character. The fact is, that a great mass of English people are constantly living above their means, to the worry of their brains, the loss of their self-respect, and the destruction of the divine uses of their lives.

As to charity-where can that be? For he whose fountains of supply are not enough for