Lydia Bray had sat down upon the edge of their father’s bed.
“I guess everything has happened at once,” she sighed. “I don’t see what we shall do, ’Phemie.”
There came a scream from Aunt Jane. She charged into the bedroom wildly, the back of her dress all wet and her bonnet dangling over one ear.
“Why, your parlor ceiling is just spouting water, girls!” she cried.
Then she turned to look closely at the man on the bed. “John Bray looks awful bad, Lyddy. What does the doctor say?”
Before her niece could reply there came a thundering knock at the hall door.
“The doctor!” cried ’Phemie.
Lyddy feared it was the young stranger returning, and she could only gasp. What should she say to him if he came in? How introduce him to Aunt Jane?
But the latter lady took affairs into her own hands at this juncture and went to the door. She unlocked and threw it open. Several helmets and glistening rubber coats appeared vaguely in the hall.
“Getting wet down here some; aren’t you?” asked one of the firemen. “We’ll spread some tarpaulins over your stuff. Fire’s out–about.”