noise. Everybody stood gazing silently at the flames. A man stepped quietly up to Mr. Morris, and looking at him, I saw that it was Mr. Montague. He was usually a well-dressed man, with a kind face, and a head of thick, grayish-brown hair. Now his face was black and grimy, his hair was burnt from the front of his head, and his clothes were half torn from his back. Mr. Morris sprang up when he saw him, and said, "Where is your wife?"
The gentleman did not say a word but pointed to the burning building. "Impossible," cried Mr. Morris. "Is there no mistake? Your beautiful young wife, Montague. Can it be so?" Mr. Morris was trembling from head to foot.
"It is true," said Mr. Montague, quietly. "Give me the boy." Charlie had fainted again, and his father took him in his arms, and turned away.
"Montague!" cried Mr. Morris, "my heart is sore for you. Can I do nothing?"
"No, thank you," said the gentleman, without turning around; but there was more anguish in his voice than in Mr. Morris's, and though I am only a dog, I knew that his heart was breaking.
