at one of the top windows with a child in her arms. No one else could have recognized Atlantic in the smoke, but Rhoda and Mary knew the round cropped head and the familiar blue gingham apron.
Lisa stood in the empty window-frame, a trembling figure on a background of flame. Her post was not at the moment in absolute danger. There was hope yet, though to the onlookers there seemed none.
"Throw him!" "Drop him!" "Le’ go of him!" shouted the crowd.
"Hold your jaws, and let me do the talking!" roared the policeman. "Stop your noise, if you don’t want two dead children on your consciences! Keep back, you brutes, keep back o’ the rope, or I’ll club you!"
It was not so much the officer’s threats as simple, honest awe that caused a sudden hush to fall. There were whisperings, sighs, tears, murmurings, but all so subdued that it seemed like silence in the midst of the fierce crackling of the flames.
"Drop him! We’ll ketch him in the quilt!" called the policeman, standing as near as he dared.
Lisa looked shudderingly at the desperate
