ging her on, on, till she was at the very door of that ghastly death-cellar. Though thirteen years old, her slight frame was as incapable of resisting Clem Peckover's muscles as an infant's would have been. The door was open, but at that moment Jane uttered a shriek which rang and echoed through the whole house. Startled, Clem relaxed her grasp. Jane tore herself away, fled up the kitchen-stairs, fled upwards still, flung herself at the feet of some one who had come out onto the landing and held a light.
"Oh, help me! Don't let her! Help me!"
"What's up with you, Jane?" asked Clara, for it was she who, not being yet in bed, had come forth at once on hearing the scream.
Jane could only cling to her garment, pant hysterically, repeat the same words of entreaty again and again. Another door opened, and John Hewett appeared half dressed.
"What's wrong?" he cried. "The 'ouse o' fire? Who yelled out like that?"
Clem was coming up; she spoke from the landing below.
