"Don't go any further," panted the old woman. "My son David is due home. He will be worried to death. I want to be where I can see and call to him, when he comes."
"Very well," said Ralph, "you are safe here, at least for the present. I will run back and save what I can in the house."
"No, no," demurred the old woman quickly. "There is nothing worth saving. The furniture is old and insured. So is the house. Oh, I am so thankful to you!" she cried fervently.
"That is all right," said Ralph. "I am sorry to see you homeless."
"How did the fire come?" questioned the woman. "From Gasper Farrington's new railroad?"
"Yes," said Ralph, "some oil cars on the switch spur took fire, and exploded."
"Then he is responsible!" cried the woman eagerly. "And his factory is burning up, isn't it? It's a retribution on him, that's what it is," she declared hoarsely. "He ran his tracks over our land without permission. He spoiled our peaceful home. Won't I get damages from him, as well as my insurance money?"
"I think your chances are very good," answered Ralph.
The old woman looked somewhat comforted. She sat mumbling to herself. Ralph wished to hurry over to the factory. He offered to wheel her to a shelter nearer the town, but she insisted she must wait in sight of the house until her son arrived.
Ralph did not like to leave her alone. The grass might catch fire and the flames spread, even to the place where they were now. He stood surveying the fire interestedly, when his companion uttered a sudden scream.