were a burnt offering to the monster. We kept well at work, saving what we could carry, until the front of the home was on fire; but still I lingered after mother and children had taken refuge in the church, picking up trifles worth but little except to me and mine, and then I must clear out by the rear door, but still remember, as I was passing, I saw the kettle standing on the stove, as the maids had left it ready for our breakfast. The sight went to my heart. Something human seemed to touch the thing we had used so long. I paused for a moment to pat it on the shoulder, and said: "I am sorry, old friend, that I must leave you there to burn. You have been a good servant to me and mine; and, quite unlike your master, you always began to sing before you boiled over." So near is humor of kin to our pain.

But the fire still swept northward, and well along in the forenoon we saw the church must go. A house near by on the line of the wind had caught, and our house of refuge was in instant peril. One house in the great waste of burning was saved, the Ogden house. It stood in a square quite near the church, and the good, generous inmates came over to us, and said: We have a great cistern full of water.

Come over

and take all you will to save the church. We may also be burned out, but we don't care. Come for the water and welcome." But, in despite of all we could do, the fire swept through the slats in the spire, and the church began to burn up there. Then, when there was no hope, we took again what we could carry of the most value, and started on our pilgrimage from the City of Destruction, buried our small store of silver in a celery patch not far away, and heaped the earth over it with our hands and feet. Mother remembered that we moved five times that day, all told, with what we could carry, losing the most before the night fell; but, when we left the church, I was blind and helpless. I could not open my eyes or my hands. So they had to lead me northward out of the danger. There was one house, we were sure, away up north, the fire would not reach. The family were members of our church. We would go there, and we went. If we had been their ain folk, we could not have been more welcome than Mrs. Price made us, and her sons. They were originally from Brattleboro. The town takes on a touch of sacredness to me because of the memory. I was lamed, and they ministered unto me: we were faint, and they fed us. My

eyes opened after much bathing, and my hands with the rest and refreshing, so that I was myself again as they were, the mother and the children. When I went to look out, I said, "The fire will take your house, dear friends." And so it was, but there was time to bury many things in the garden in the dry sand they recovered without damage about a week after. Some members of our church lived north by west in the lee of a small lake and were safe from the fire. Mr. Moulding said, "We must find our minister and the family at any cost." So he yoked up his team and came to find us found us I do not quite remember where; but there the good fellow was with his wagon, ready to take us home. Mother and the children went with him, but I stayed behind to come after, while among us we picked up fifteen young men of the church, I remember, who were quite stranded. They were also taken to the refuge in the lee of the lake. There was no room for them in the house, so they must sleep in the barn, a palace to them that night, but very cold, as they would tell for years after in great glee. They slept in a row; and, when the outermost men could bear the cold no longer, they would take to the middle where the others gave

them room. So they had a good time. My last memory of the grim day was to watch the fire fiend burn the last house.

This is the memory of the destruction of our home, our church, and almost all the homes in our parish. Another memory remains of our restoration.

XXVIII

I must reap some memories now of our restoration after the great fire, and this is the first.

When we were alone in our safe harbor on the lee of the small lake, and mother had seen the children safe in their beds, I quite broke down, for the pity of it and the pain. The church was burnt, and the home we owned, with more than 90 per cent of the homes in our parish, while we feared also that dear friends had been caught as in a trap when the great volumes of fire from the explosions in the vaults on the south side had leaped suddenly on them and barred their escape by the avenues northward. They might have escaped in a boat or a tug on the lake; but we feared the worst, and I broke down.

But once more in our life together my extremity was mother's opportunity. Bunyan tells us that, when his pilgrims were in the dungeon of the Giant Despair, Christian found a key in his bosom called Hope, wherewith they