Conspicuous in black clothes and white shirt-sleeves, the Rector was hewing with an axe at the boarding of a cowhouse, the door end of which was already in flames, and his voice could be heard above the tumult shouting directions to which nobody paid any heed. “What's in that cow-house?” gasped Mr. Pendyce. Mrs. Peacock, in a voice harsh with rage and grief answered: “It's the old horse and two of the cows!” “God bless me!” cried the Squire, rushing forward with his bucket. Some villagers came running up, and he shouted to these, but what he said neither he nor they could tell. The shrieks and snortings of the horse and cows, the steady whirr of the flames, drowned all lesser sounds. Of human cries, the Rector's voice alone was heard, between the crashing blows of his axe upon the woodwork. Mr. Pendyce tripped; his bucket rolled out of his hand; he lay where he had fallen, too exhausted to move. He could still hear the crash of the Rector's axe, the sound of his shouts. Somebody helped him up, and trembling so that he could hardly stand, he caught an axe out of the hand of a strapping young fellow who had just arrived, and placing himself by the Rector's side, swung it feebly against the boarding. The flames and smoke now filled the whole cow-house, and came rushing through the gap that they were making. The Squire and the Rector stood their ground. With a furious blow Mr. Barter cleared a way. A cheer rose behind them, but no beast came forth. All three were dead in the smoke and flames. The Squire, who could see in, flung down his axe, and covered his eyes with his hands. The Rector uttered a sound like a deep oath, and he, too, flung down his axe. Two hours later, with torn and blackened clothes, the Squire stood by the ruins of the barn. The fire was out, but the ashes were still smouldering. The spaniel John, anxious, panting, was licking his master's boots, as though begging forgiveness that he had been so frightened, and kept so far away. Yet something in his eye seemed to be saying: “Must you really have these fires, master?” A black hand grasped the Squire's arm, a hoarse voice said: “I shan't forget, Squire!” “God bless me, Peacock!” returned Mr. Pendyce, “that's nothing! You're insured, I hope?' “Aye, I'm insured; but it's the beasts I'm thinking of!” “Ah!” said the Squire, with a gesture of horror. The brougham took him and the Rector back together. Under their feet crouched their respective dogs, faintly growling at each other. A cheer from the crowd greeted their departure. They started in silence, deadly tired. Mr. Pendyce said suddenly: “I can't get those poor beasts out of my head, Barter!” The Rector put his hand up to his eyes. “I hope to God I shall never see such a sight again! Poor brutes, poor brutes!” And feeling secretly for his dog's muzzle, he left his hand against the animal's warm, soft, rubbery mouth, to be licked again and again.