Charred Wood

"Father--don't--risk--trying--to get me--out--before you hear--my confession."

"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught," remonstrated Mark. "You have a chance if we act quickly."

"The only--chance--I want--is my--confession. Quick--Father."

With his head held close to that of the dying man, the priest listened. The men stood back and saw the smoke and flames arise out of the pile of splintered timbers. Then the priest's hand was raised in absolution.

"Quick now!" called Father Murray; "get him out."

The men stooped to obey, but saw that it was no use. The blood-spattered face was calm, and around the stiller lips there lingered a smile, as though the man had gone out in peace and unexpected contentment.

Turning aside, they found the fireman, and one man from the wrecked freight, lying beside the tracks--both dead. Then they went to the lengthening line along the fence. The priest bent over each recumbent form. At some he just glanced, and passed on, for they were dead. For others he had only a few words, and an encouraging prayer. But sometimes he stopped, and bent his head to listen, then lifted his hand in absolution; and Mark knew he was shriving another poor soul.

Suddenly the same thought seemed to come to both Mark and Saunders. Quickly passing along the line of pain and death, they both looked for the same face. It was not there. Yet she had been in the wrecked coach. The light of a relief train was showing far down the straight track, as Mark turned to a brakeman.

"Are there any others?"

"Yes; two--across the track."

Mark and Saunders hastened to the other side. Two women were bending over the forms laid on the ground. One glance was enough. The whole world seemed to spin around Mark Griffin. Ruth and Madame Neuville were lying there--both dead.

The strange women who were standing around seemed to understand. They stepped back. Mark knelt beside the girl's body. He could not see through his tears--but they helped him. He tried to pray, but found that he could only weep. It seemed as though there were a flood within pushing to find exit and bring comfort to him. He could think of her now in but one setting--a great empty church at the end of springtime, crowds passing outside, a desolate man behind a closed door, and a little child, with the face of an angel, sitting alone in a carven pew. He could hear her answer him in her childish prattle, could feel her cool little hand slip into his as she asked about the lonely man within. Then he remembered the kiss. The floods dried up. Mark's sorrow was beyond the consolation of tears.