“Give me the spade,” was his reply. “A little work will do me good.”
Old Sarah remonstrated, but it ended in the strangely matched pair going together to the meadows below.
The dry sphagnum was readily cut through with the spade, and it was not a difficult, although a slow task, to dig a wide, shallow trench between the stretch of burning moss and the gardens. Once the ditch was complete, it would be easy to fight the fire on the home side, since there was nothing swift or fierce about the conflagration, it being rather a sullen, relentless smouldering of the moss and grass-roots, dry from the long drought.
Zealously as the two labored, the fire gained upon them, and as they worked, they could not but cast despairing glances at the long stretch of garden which lay still unprotected.
Meanwhile Columbine from her window had seen the laborers, and, in a moment realizing the danger, she flew to the library.
“Father,” she cried, “the salt marshes have been burning all day, and the fire is almost up to the garden.”
“Good heavens, Columbine, how impetuous you are! You have quite driven out of my head what became of the second son of—”
“But, father,” she interrupted, impatiently, “do you realize that if you sit here pothering about second sons the house may be burned over our heads?”
“Burned!” exclaimed the genealogist, in dismay; “and all my papers scattered about! Oh, help me, Columbine, to pack up my notes; but don’t take up anything without asking me where it goes. Do you think that iron-bound trunk will hold them all?”