All about Watson's mill yard, was a cacophony of noise and smoke. The water pails clunked their metallic chime, and their liquid sloshed carelessly upon the ground - drenching well-worn shoes. Then came the great rush of that vital water, as it splattered onto the burning shed; a hiss of steam erupting from the smouldering rafters. Men cried out for more water, and feet scuffed hurriedly across the yard. Womenfolk cried over singed faces and shrouded bodies, and slumped men sat upon the ground, panting through their labours.

A grim sight it was, but a testimony to the depth of humanity, which dwelt amongst the very lowest of society; those most wretched of men, whom would always be looked down upon. For what was a noble, courageous and feeling heart, if it was accompanied by shabby shoes, brown necks and dropped "H's"! And in testament to that nefarious wheel that is "society", peddled by the middle-men (who desperately seek not to be the lowers), Mr Watson stood well back - almost at the gates - and with clean face and hands and a dandy suit, he said, -

'Well, we shan't make Wetherby's order, now!' He was not a popular fellow, but even so, those nearest to him were surprised to see that he felt no trepidation for his brother and fellow Master, Mr Thornton. But perhaps he did not know his brother was crushed beneath a burning roof, for he was stood such a long way off, that he likely could not see a thing! And as if to prove he was not heartless, but merely selfish in his own disinterest, he turned to his right-hand man, and said, 'now where is Thornton? I shan't be pleased if he's gone off, and the fire still blazing!'

'Thornton, sir?' asked his overseer, and he glanced nervously at his colleagues, stood about awaiting some direction, for he did not wish to tell his master, that his new brother was likely dead.

'Yes, Thornton!' boomed Watson. 'I say, where's Thornton?'

Then came the mumbled voices, all looking to one another in amazement, as the attuned ear deciphered a litany of, "Master Thornton", and "Thornton were near th' shed, weren't 'e?". A solemn voice did add, "Thornton's gone", "He's lost,' agreed the fellow's friend. Now, Mr Thornton was a Master, and so they would shed no tears, but still, they acknowledge that he was a fair man - far fairer than the rest - and so lately married! So, too, was the tall imposing figure, always discernible to the crowds; such an integral part of the tapestry of Milton. It was with a heavy sense of loss - which they thought they ought not feel - that those nameless workers decided he was dead.

And as the rumour swept the yard, and people pulled up short, or a pail paused in motion, the name of Thornton rang about the mill yard in hushed and whispered tones, until it met Margaret's ears, and looking to her husband, she did gasp again, -

'Mr Thornton is dead!'

Dr Lyndhurst held his unsteady wife in his arms, before leading her backwards towards an up-turned crate, and gently settling her upon it. His expression was calm and his tone and gestures were soothing, but inwardly, his body was a seething mass of tension. The shock on Margaret's face pained him, and his heart beat thickly for Isabel, whom he cared for second only to Margaret, having felt for her from the very first, a most peculiar attachment. To think of that poor wife - locked up and all alone! - whilst her husband lay dead or dying in that burning shed, was more than he could countenance.

He knew Isabel would not cope without her husband, for Mr Thornton was not just her husband, but her anchor and protector. And Mrs Thornton, too! would be so wholly undone by such a catastrophic loss. Dr Lyndhurst felt a knot of tension within his breast, and his eyes stung at the thought of that stern dark face, whom he had come to call "friend". He could not foresee how Isabel could possibly navigate the alien world of Milton, without her steadfast supporter at her side.

And Higgins, too! His life was not to be forgot; he could not die in that mill fire without singeing their hearts, and just as smartly as could one of their own household. For he was honest and a tonic to any jaded mind; he was warm and loyal, and both women - Isabel and Margaret - did look to the man in a fatherly way - and Dr Lyndhurst knew - for all their differences in circumstance and class - that Nicholas Higgins was - in truth - nothing less than a friend to he and Mr Thornton. Oh, but Mr Thornton; had he now any need of a friend, or was he gone to his eternal resting place? Dr Lyndhurst thought it very likely the latter, but yet, he could not give up hope; not when the prospect of the worst, was so wholly abhorrent to every sensibility he held dear.

'The Bouchers!' gasped Margaret, who could think of nothing but the certain deaths of both Nicholas Higgins and Mr Thornton. 'And Mary! Oh, poor Mary. She lost her mother young, and just last year, her dearest Bessy. But Nicholas; to lose him too; it is too much!'

'Do you need to return home, my love?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, solicitously. He would have dearly liked to return her to their quiet home, and the calming words of her father, but he could not leave whilst he was needed, and would have to entrust his young wife to Dixon's care, which he was loath to do.

'No; I stay with you. Isabel was kept away and now her husband is lost; I'll not let the same be done to me!' said Margaret, defiantly, and with an air of haughtiness.

'I am going nowhere; I shall take no risks.'

'Oh, but Mr Thornton did! He would run in for Higgins - how could he not! - but for Isabel to lose him! Whatever will she do?' cried Margaret, as her tears finally began to fall.

'I do not think Isabel has lost him, my darling,' whispered Dr Lyndhurst, in consternation, for there came a growing murmur of awed voices, as the tall, black figure of Mr Thornton - his pale skin, now dark with soot - stumbled from that smoking shed; a sea of confounded faces parting about him, so that he might walk by - carrying over his shoulder, the limp form of Higgins.

'Lowe! I'll have Lowe!' cried Mr Thornton, as he made towards Margaret and Dr Lyndhurst. But that firm commanding voice was lost, and drowned out by hot smoke, cloying to throat and lungs, making his cry merely a whisper, as his knees threatened to buckle under Higgins' weight.

'Thornton!' And Dr Lyndhurst leapt forward, and slid Higgins from Mr Thornton's shoulder, as Dr Lowe set to work examining the blackened weaver. Mr Thornton slumped to his knees, and braced himself upon his palms, as he panted and gasped for clean air. His body shuddered and his expression was grim, such that Margaret was almost afraid to approach him. But he clutched at his chest and winced in pain, making himself appear so unfamiliarly vulnerable.

'Water, Mr Thornton; you need water,' urged Margaret, softly, placing a cup into his hands. He slowly sat up on his haunches, and sipped at the cup with trembling hands, as he gazed sightlessly before him; coughing intermittently.

'Higgins' hands are burnt - he tried to lift a rafter to get to the lad, but it was too late, and the lad could not be saved,' rasped Mr Thornton, tonelessly.

'Dr Lowe is seeing to him now,' encouraged Margaret.

'Find Donaldson,' said Mr Thornton, distractedly; his voice so weak and reedy, that Margaret had to lean close to hear him. 'Lowe is good - very good - but I'll have no less than Donaldson for Higgins.'

Now Dr Lyndhurst was of the same mind; only the very best would do for Higgins. But the very best, thought he, was shut up in a room at Marlborough Mills, and so no sooner had Higgins been passed over into Dr Lowe's care, than he had taken himself off to Marlborough Mills, to claim that lady's help. He thanked God that Mr Thornton was not above living on the mill site, for right in the middle of the mill district (as Marlborough Mills was), it was little more than a three minute run for the doctor.

'Mrs Thornton,' said he, striding past her and up the stairs to the family's private rooms, 'I'll have the key to Mr Thornton's room and I'll have it now.'

'Dr Lyndhurst. Whatever is the meaning of -'

'Higgins is hurt; gravely hurt. John risked his life to save him. You would not have that risk be all for naught?' Mrs Thornton's eyes widened, and she fumbled in her skirts for her bundle of house keys; at length finding the key to her son's room.

'Isabel,' said Dr Lyndhurst, as he unlocked the door and slowly pushed it open.

'Dr Lyndhurst!' called Isabel, in surprise. 'What do you do here? Did Margaret send you?' asked Isabel, with a frown.

'Higgins is hurt. I need the best doctor I know.' And immediately Isabel was upon her feet, and hurrying from the house, as she moved quickly to keep pace with the taller man.

'Where is John?' Why have you come for me in John's stead?'

'Your John pulled Higgins from the burning shed. The smoke has weakened him, so I left him in Margaret's care, and came for you myself.'

'John is hurt!' gasped Isabel, frowning, in a bid to ward off unwanted tears.

'He did walk from the shed, so not gravely hurt, but he is undoubtedly weakened.'

'Then I shall see to Higgins, and then I shall see to John,' declared Isabel, with determination.

Nicholas Higgins clung to life with a feeble grasp, and as Dr Donaldson looked him over, and set about his medicine bag, those last embers of life began to fade, whilst Margaret held his hand and quietly sobbed. He had taken a knock to the head, and his lungs were scorched and clogged. His breathing weakened to a sleepy whisper, and his heart slowed, soft and faint, as that ominous stillness overcame him, and his chest ceased to dilate.

'Oh, Nicholas!' whimpered Margaret, now taking up his hand. Dixon placed a soothing arm upon her shoulder, but that honest friend would die, and no warm palm could temper the loss.

'Move aside, Donaldson,' called Isabel, now running towards Higgins, and as Dr Lyndhurst set her bag down next to him, she quickly fell to her knees beside the weaver.

'Isabel!' rasped Mr Thornton, but Dr Lyndhurst placed a hand upon his shoulder to still him in his protestations. She did not look at him; she spied his presence and knew him to be alive, and in her haste to tend to Higgins, could offer her husband no further thought, nor care.

'I went for her; she's needed here,' explained Dr Lyndhurst, to a bewildered Mr Thornton, whose body shook with racking coughs. The small gathering which had formed about the popular Union man, sat back, as Isabel felt for Higgins' pulse and placed her ear to his mouth to listen for sounds of breath. She shook her head sadly, clenched her fist, and brought it crashing down upon Higgins' breast.

'Isabel!' cried Margaret, in alarm, for her friend was striking a dead man.

'No, my darling; she knows what she does,' urged Dr Lyndhurst, watching quizzically.

Now Higgins' head was tipped back, by the press of two fingers about his chin, and his mouth gently prised open. Isabel peered inside and felt about for an obstruction, and finding none, pinched her fingers to his nostrils, and pressed her mouth to his parted lips, exhaling deeply. Higgins' chest visibly dilated under her ministrations, and for a second time, Isabel leant down and breathed into his mouth.

'What does she do?' asked Margaret, in alarm, as Mr Thornton frowned at his wife in confusion. She was now raised up on her knees, and leaning her weight down upon Higgins, as her entwined hands rhythmically pressed into his chest. Her lips moved wordlessly as she counted, and then she moved back to his mouth, and breathed that vital air into Higgins' lungs.

'I have read of this; it is talked of in the medical circles on the continent, but I have never seen it done,' explained Dr Lyndhurst, to Margaret.

'She is giving him air,' continued Dr Donaldson; his voice full of disbelief, as he watched a lady place her lips to a weaver's mouth. 'And she stimulates his heart. Each press of her hands acts as one beat of the heart, and propels the blood about the body.'

'She is his heart and lungs?' wheezed Mr Thornton, in wonder; looking in awe at his wife. I am a fool! said he to himself, as he watched her repeat her motions; lips and air; hands and heart - lips and air, hands and heart.

He could not have trusted her to keep herself safe; he did not regret his heavy-handed actions to protect her. He knew she would have run in after Higgins, or if not, most certainly after himself, but oh! She could have saved a dozen lives, if she had been close by. He was angry with himself for preventing her from healing those poor souls, but then his anger swelled and he directed it to her. She had a gift, he told himself, but she uses it ill. Her place is as a healer; not a warrior or hero, and he scowled a dark look as he thought on it.

Ay! thought Mr Thornton, bitterly. She would save lives - she would do us well - if only she would be obedient. A fine team we'd be; her and I, if only she would play her part and not seek to trench upon mine. And then Higgins shuddered a great and rasping wheeze of breath, and he coughed and choked against the thick smoke.

'Now a tincture for his throat, Donaldson; I'll have water and something to soothe his throat. His airways are no doubt damaged; he'll need a carriage back to your home.' Now turning to Higgins and looking to his hands - which were sorely burnt, 'Your hands are out of action, friend. You'll do no weaving for a while. A good job you have brains, for my husband is woefully lacking, and will have need of yours.' And although Higgins was only half lucid, his eyes shone saucily, and he smiled at his Mistress, and her sharp and teasing tongue.

'Now, I'll take my husband home,' demanded Isabel, rising to her feet and taking hold of Mr Thornton's arm. Dr Lyndhurst grimaced, and felt sympathy for his friend.

'What is wrong?' asked Margaret, quietly.

'Poor Thornton; I'd not wish to be in his place at this moment.'

'But it was very wrong of him; to lock Isabel in her room.'

'It was unkind, but his motives were fair, and Isabel is reckless. You would not run into a burning building - especially if you had medical skill and could do some good from the safety of the yard - but Isabel sees only imminent danger and rushes in - skirts and all! A weaker husband would be quite done-in by such a stress.'

'Perhaps,' mused Margaret, but she was loath to agree, for she thought Mr Thornton had acted very ill; his mother, even worse! 'If she is reckless, it is only because she was raised an orphan, and has always had to look after herself. I imagine the desert was a fearful place, and perhaps now she knows no fear. When she is a mother, she will feel differently; she will have to protect herself to protect her children.'

'Yes, my darling; that is so. But what you ladies so seldom realise, is that where we men love, we love unreservedly, and so you are our greatest weakness. It is not only the babe the wife must protect herself for, but her husband. A loving husband cannot go on without his darling wife.'

Mr Thornton sat on the side of the bed, looking warily at his wife. She had spoken not a word to him, as they had walked slowly back to Marlborough Mills. True, she had placed his arm about her shoulders, and bid him to lean his great weight upon her. She had been silently solicitous of his needs on that laborious short walk home, but then she had left him to offer his mother all owed explanations, whilst she had gone to order a bath drawn for her husband. Now a small hip bath was sat in their room - awaiting Mr Thornton to disrobe - and Isabel stood with a stethoscope in hand.

'John, I will listen to your chest. Take off that shirt.' Watching her closely - waiting for the eruption of indignation - he slipped off his shirt, and sat pliantly before her. But she only frowned at a gash to his chest and shoulder, placed that fluted tube against his breast, and pressed her ear to the other end. Then she moved it about, before listening to his back, as she asked him to drawn in and exhale, great breaths.

'You are lucky, John. No doubt Mother will be proud of your strong constitution; I hear no damage to your chest, which rest and care shan't settle; nothing lasting. Your throat; you'll have only soups, and I've a pretty-tasting tincture you're sure to enjoy.' And her lips quirked at the corners, as though revelling in his discomfort. 'Here, now, take off the rest of your things whilst I clean this wound to your chest, and then we shall wash off this soot.'

Mr Thornton was surprised by Isabel's tenderness; by the softness of her touch as she cleaned his wound.

'How did you get this, John?' asked Isabel, quietly. Mr Thornton's expression darkened, and his jaw tensed with repressed emotion. 'You must talk to me, John. Do not hide your feelings from me.' And she cupped her hands about his cheeks, and looked into his troubled eyes. 'John?'

'I ran in after Higgins; I knew the roof would fall, but he did not. When the rafters fell in, one struck me - here - and knocked me down. I was pinned beneath it, but it kept the rest of the fall-in from me, so I was able to slowly work my way out after a while.' He looked to her anxiously, and when she simply nodded, he continued. 'Higgins had tried to lift a beam from the young boy - that is how he burnt his hands - but he was felled by the fall-in and trapped, so I had to try and clear away the fallen roof to get to him. I could hardly see - the air was so thick! - and it scolded my throat just to breath it. But Izzy,' rasped he, looking pleadingly to his wife, 'when I finally reached Higgins and pulled him to me, the boy was beneath him, and dead.'

'He could not be saved,' said Isabel, gently. 'But Higgins did a noble thing in seeking to save the boy, and you were brave in saving Higgins.'

'The lad was struck about the head by a rafter, I should think. He bled from his head. I was struck, and only this,' replied Mr Thornton, disdainfully, as he beckoned to his shoulder.

'Does it hurt?'

'Ay. I suppose I should say it doesn't, but it does.'

'Let us bathe you, and then I shall give you something for the pain.'

Isabel mopped his blackened face, and gently sponged him clean, looking tentatively at her husband's pained expression, all the while. He was a strong man, and stoic, but his heart was feeling and he had a softness about him which meant he felt such suffering keenly, although he did not wish to show it. That stifled pain expressed itself in a tensed jaw and dark cheeks, and the determined repression of those feelings - which ought to have been released - caused his breathing to deepen, where his lungs were sore, and he coughed against the strain of it.

'Cry if you need to, John. I shan't think less of you.' But he merely looked to her in surprise, for men did not cry openly. 'Here,' said she, 'let me wash your hair.' And she gently poured a jug of water over his head; rivulets streaming from his dark locks, and trickling down his face. 'Here, love,' urged Isabel, drawing her husband's face into the crook of her neck. 'Your wet hair soaks your face; now let me comfort you.'