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Updated: May 18, 2025
In the still unburnt rubbish at the right, some one had wrenched an opening within a foot of Sene's face. They clawed at the solid iron pintless like savage things. A fireman fainted in the glow. "Give it up!" cried the crowd from behind. "It can't be done! Fall back!" then hushed, awestruck. An old man was crawling along upon his hands and knees over the heated bricks. He was a very old man.
The soutar opened it himself, and took the minister straight to the ben-end of the house, where Isy sat alone. She rose, and with downcast eyes went to meet him. "Isy," he faltered, "can ye forgie me? And wull ye merry me as sene's ever we can be cried? I'm as ashamed o' mysel as even ye would hae me!" "Ye haena sae muckle to be ashamet o' as I hae, sir: it was a' my wyte!"
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.
Pretty Del turned her head. She had just flung a smile at a young clerk who was petting his mustache in a shop-window, and the smile lingered. One of the factory boys was walking alone across the Common in his factory clothes. "Why, there's Dick! Sene, do you see?" Sene's scarred mouth moved slightly, but she made no reply. She had seen him five minutes ago.
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