them down the bricked steps to the street. It was at present deserted, quiet; and they turned to the left, making their way toward the river and warehouses.
The fires had largely subsided; below them rose blackened bare walls of brick, sullen twisting flags of smoke; an air of sooty desolation had settled over the city. Houses were tightly shuttered; some with broken doors had a trail of hastily discarded loot on the porticoes; still others were smoldering shells.
A bugle call rose clear and triumphant from the capital; at one place they passed Union soldiers, extinguishing flames.
They descended the flagged street over which Elim had come, turned into another called—he saw—Cary, and finally halted before a long somber façade. Here, too, the fire had raged; the charred timbers of the fallen roof projected desolately into air.
A small group at a main entrance faced them as they approached; a coatless man with haggard features, his clothes saturated with water, advanced quickly.
"Miss Rosemary!" he ejaculated in palpable dismay. He drew Elim Meikeljohn aside. "Take her away," he directed; "her father . . . killed, trying to save his papers."
"Where?" Elim demanded. "Their house is empty. She can't stay in Richmond alone."
"I'd forgotten that!" the other admitted. "McCall and John both gone, mother dead, and now—by heaven!" he exclaimed, low and distressed, "she has just no one. I'm without a place. Her friends have left.
