“Certainly, I’ll stay,” said the old preacher, limping to the front of the store, and laying his hand on the shoulder of the troubled storekeeper; “but, Brother Jones, if the light of that burning mill should show you anything inside of yourself, _don’t_ cover your eyes. It’s for righteousness’ sake I ask it.” “All right, Brother Brown,” whispered the deacon hoarsely, as he started off with two water-pails in each hand, and murmuring, “What did the old fellow mean by that, I wonder?” Across the street was Squire Tomple, just jumping into his buggy, and the deacon made haste to accept an invitation to a seat beside his fellow-sufferer. The two stockholders did not lack company; Crupp, Judge Macdonald, and most of the other stockholders, either preceded or followed them, and on the road were hundreds of men and boys, full of an enterprising desire to see the largest fire that had ever occurred in Barton, and already experiencing such of the pleasures of anticipation as a heavy column of smoke could create. Coming in sight of the mill itself, the deacon groaned, and the Squire assisted him, for flames were bursting from every window, and the men who had been passing pails of water up ladders and through the stairways had been driven from their work, and had formed a circle which was slowly but steadily widening. Considerable of the wool had been removed and stacked outside the building, and it now became necessary to move this still farther away, but so many hands were ready to seize it that Deacon Jones could not relieve his feelings even by attempting to save property; so he stood still and looked at the fire, as he estimated his losses. Such a day he had not known since he had lost considerable uninsured stock by the explosion of a river steamer. Sidling uneasily about among the crowd, he found several stockholders anxiously comparing pencil notes, and the figures were anything but consolatory supposing all the stock to be saved, there was yet the mill and machinery--value, about ten thousand dollars--which would be totally lost; insurance, five thousand dollars; dead loss, ditto; which left the Squire out of pocket to the extent of a quarter of his subscription. The small profit which had already accrued would not more than cover the loss of the interest on the remaining capital until the mill could be rebuilt, if it seemed advisable to rebuild it. “Who’s to blame for all this?” asked the deacon angrily. “We haven’t learned yet,” said the judge, “and I’m afraid it won’t help matters any to know all about it. There goes the last of it!”