“I tell you he was,” returned Hal, pettishly.  “When I say he was, I do not mean that he was not.  I followed him after the fire.”

“Did you?”

“Good heavens, you will drive me mad!” Hal sprang to his feet.  “I followed him I say—­ay, to the death!”

Then ensued a rapid recital of all that had passed, Hal was excited beyond endurance, every nerve was stretched to its utmost, and the purple veins stood out boldly on his white forehead.  He did not wait for May to say a word, but abruptly ended his narrative with: 

“Was not this a pretty way to reward him for saving the life of my cousin—­my sister.  O, God, must the roar of that terrible whirlpool ring in my ears forever?” He gazed a moment on May’s countenance of speechless sorrow, and rushed from the room.

For a long time Hal and May scarcely spoke to each other.  He felt as though he had wronged her, and was always restless in her society.  He would not bear to receive the thousand cousinly attentions which May had always lavished on him, and which she now performed mechanically; he hated to see the suppers by the corner of the grate, and after a few evenings would not notice them; but above all he could not endure that very, very sad expression in May’s eyes—­for worlds he would have wished not to be able to translate it.  The time for his wedding was fast drawing nigh, and he knew he should be miserable if May did not smile upon his bridal.

Weeks passed, and Delancey did not go to a fire; he paid his fines and remained at home.  But he could not sleep while the bells were ringing—­somehow they reminded him of that still night at Hurl Gate.  By degrees the coldness wore off between May and himself, and she consented to be Emily’s, his Emily’s bridesmaid.

One night, however, the bell had a solemn summons in it, which Hal could not resist.  It tolled as though for a funeral, and spoke to his very heart.  He threw on his fire-clothes and hastened down town.  Delancey soon reached the scene of destruction.  The flames were carousing in all their mad mirth, as though they were to be the cause of no sorrow, no pain, no death.  Hal’s courage was soon excited; he leaped upon the burning rafters, rescuing goods from destruction, telling where a stream was needed; but suddenly he became paralyzed—­he heard a voice which had often rung in his ear amid like scenes, a greater genius than his own was at work.  He learned that he was innocent, even indirectly, of the stranger’s death.  Joy thrilled through every vein, he could have faced any peril, however great.  Regardless of the angry blaze, he made his way through fire and smoke to the stranger’s side.  The fireman paused in his labor a moment, grasped Hal’s hand, and with a smile, in which mingled a dash of triumph, said: 

“You see I am safe.”

“Do you forgive my rudeness?” asked Hal.

“Entirely!” was the ready response, and they went to work again.