A broad piece of flooring, that had fallen slantwise, roofed her in, and saved her from the mass of iron-work overhead, which would have crushed the breath out of Titans.  Fragments of looms, shafts, and pillars were in heaps about.  Some one whom she could not see was dying just behind her.  A little girl who worked in her room—­a mere child—­was crying, between her groans, for her mother.  Del Ivory sat in a little open space, cushioned about with reels of cotton; she had a shallow gash upon her cheek; she was wringing her hands.  They were at work from the outside, sawing entrances through the labyrinth of planks.  A dead woman lay close by, and Sene saw them draw her out.  It was Meg Match.  One of the pretty Irish girls was crushed quite out of sight; only one hand was free; she moved it feebly.  They could hear her calling for Jimmy Mahoney, Jimmy Mahoney! and would they be sure and give him back the handkerchief?  Poor Jimmy Mahoney!  By and by she called no more; and in a little while the hand was still.  On the other side of the slanted flooring some one prayed aloud.  She had a little baby at home.  She was asking God to take care of it for her.  “For Christ’s sake,” she said.  Sene listened long for the Amen, but it was never spoken.  Beyond, they dug a man out from under a dead body, unhurt.  He crawled to his feet, and broke into furious blasphemies.

As consciousness came fully, agony grew.  Sene shut her lips and folded her bleeding hands together, and uttered no cry.  Del did screaming enough for two, she thought.  She pondered things, calmly as the night deepened, and the words that the workers outside were saying came brokenly to her.  Her hurt, she knew, was not unto death; but it must be cared for before very long; how far could she support this slow bleeding away?  And what were the chances that they could hew their way to her without crushing her?

She thought of her father, of Dick; of the bright little kitchen and supper-table set for three; of the song that she had sung in the flush of the morning.  Life—­even her life—­grew sweet, now that it was slipping from her.

Del cried presently, that they were cutting them out.  The glare of the bonfires struck through an opening; saws and axes flashed; voices grew distinct.

“They never can get at me,” said Sene.  “I must be able to crawl.  If you could get some of those bricks off of my feet, Del!”

Del took off two or three in a frightened way; then, seeing the blood on them, sat down and cried.

A Scotch girl, with one arm shattered, crept up and removed the pile, then fainted.

The opening broadened, brightened; the sweet night-wind blew in; the safe night-sky shone through.  Sene’s heart leaped within her.  Out in the wind and under the sky she should stand again, after all!  Back in the little kitchen, where the sun shone, and she could sing a song, there would yet be a place for her.  She worked her head from under the beam, and raised herself upon her elbow.