“You’d a great deal better stay at home!” his wife called after him, but he was gone. She still sat on the piazza. A few moments later a rider sped past, and then another. Then the fire-bells began to ring at last—clang! clang! clang, clang, clang! The fire was on the outskirts of the village, in a different direction from that which Mr. Harlow had taken in the morning. The smoke rose a blacker and blacker column in the distance, interspersed with sudden bursts of flame. The crackling sound of burning wood, the occasional sound of something falling, and hoarse voices calling to one another were borne faintly yet unmistakably upon the air. “I’m going to the fire!” It was Betty, hat in hand, who had rushed down-stairs breathless. “Come on, Syl! Oh, isn’t it exciting! Just look at that blaze! There go our boys!” The street was filled with an outpouring of bicycles with their riders, and with boys and men coming in from the various games, Herbert in one set, Jack in another. The village was rapidly becoming deserted. Mrs. Harlow began to wish she might go, too, but she guaged the distance and forbore. The fire had started in some outhouses, and helped by a sudden breeze, had leaped merrily over intervening space towards a large barn that stretched out red and imposing over one end of the field. Beyond that was a dwelling-house. The barn, which was new, while piled at one end with fodder, was as yet untenanted by any animals, as Mr. Harlow thankfully discovered on reaching the place. The stir in the village had not extended to these outlying fields, which were all deserted, as became a holiday. A woman stood in the doorway of the house, watching the blaze. One man was running off, shouting for help, and another was carrying two buckets of water towards the barn. He came up to Mr. Harlow and put the buckets on the ground. “There ain’t any use in carryin’ water,” he said, “not a mite o’ use, only it seemed sort o’ natural to do it. Just look at those flames!” “The engine ought to hurry up if it’s going to do any good,” said Mr. Harlow. “Can’t do a particle of good if it does come. There ain’t any water here—that is, not more than a teacupful; well and cistern’s dry as a bone.” “The house will not catch,” said Mr. Harlow; “the wind is the other way. You are sure there was no one in the barn?” “Sure,” said the man. They were gazing at the flames, which enveloped one end of the structure. Another moment, and there was a deafening crash through the roar of the fire; half of the barn had fallen in, and revealed beyond, high up on one of the big beams of the rafters, the white faces and crouching forms of six little children, huddled close together. Playing in the loft, they had climbed higher and higher back, to get out of reach of the flames. A cry of horror broke from the two onlookers. The next instant the man, wildly shrieking for help, followed Mr. Harlow, who sped towards the barn.