merchandise saved from the falling warehouses into their freely offered shelter,—­ladies were walking to and fro, as if in their own halls and parlors, watching, and questioning whomsoever came, and saying to each other hushed and solemn or excited words,—­when the whole city was but one great home upon which had fallen a mighty agony and wonder that drove its hearts to each other as the hearts of a household,—­these two, Bel Bree and little Miss Smalley, knew scarcely anything that was definite, and had been waiting and wondering all night, thinking it would be improper to talk into the street!

A young lad came up the court at last; he lived next door; he was an errand-boy in some great store on Franklin Street.  His mother spoke to him from her window.

“Bennie! how is it?”

“Mother!  All Boston is gone up!  Summer Street, High Street, Federal Street, Pearl Street, Franklin Street, Milk Street, Devonshire Street,—­everything, clear through to the New Post Office.  I’ve been on the Common all night, guarding goods.  There’s another fellow there now, and I’ve come home to get warm.  I’m almost frozen.”

His mother was at the door as he finished speaking, and took him in; and they heard no more.

The boy’s words were heavy with heavy meaning.  He said them without any boy-excitement; they carried their own excitement in the heart of them.  In those eight hours he had lived like a man; in an experience that until of late few men have known.

They did not know how long they stood there after that, with scarcely a word to each other,—­only now and then some utterance of sudden recollection of this and that which must have vanished away within that stricken territory,—­taking in, slowly, the reality, the tremendousness of what had happened,—­was happening.

It was five o’clock when Mr. Hewland came in, and up the stairs, and found them there.  Aunt Blin had not awaked.  There was a trace of morphine in her cough-drops, and Bel knew now, since she had slept so long, that she would doubtless sleep late into the morning.  That was well.  It would be time enough to tell her by and by.  There would be all day,—­all winter,—­to tell it in.

Mr. Hewland told them, hastily, the main history of the fire.

“Is Trinity Church?”—­asked poor Miss Smalley tremblingly.

She had not said anything about it to Bel Bree; she could not think of that great stone tower as having let the fire in,—­as not having stood, cool and strong, against any flame.  And Trinity Church was her tower.  She had sat in one seat in its free gallery for fourteen years.  If that were gone, she would hardly know where to go, to get near to heaven.  Only nine days ago,—­All Saints’ Day,—­she had sat there listening to beautiful words that laid hold upon the faith of all believers, back through the church, back before Christ to the prophets and patriarchs, and told how God was her God because He had been theirs.  The old faith,—­and the Old Church!  “Was Trinity?”—­She could not say,—­“burned.”