CHAPTER VII
SURMISES
Mrs. Horton and Jessie walked around the house to the bed-room window, and stood surveying the pile of rubbish beneath it, wondering greatly why a fire should break out in that place.
“The only way I can account for it is that a spark from the chimney must have fallen into this pile and set it afire,” Mrs. Horton observed, turning bits of the pile in question over with the toe of her shoe. “I’m not blaming you, Leslie, but it is true that young folks can’t be too careful with fire. I wouldn’t be a mite surprised now, if you just filled the kitchen stove full of dry stuff and set it off when you built a fire to get your supper.”
“Leslie always does use lots of kindling,” interposed Jessie, who was, it must be admitted, more careful about small savings than I.
“You may depend on it, then, that that’s just how it happened,” Mrs. Horton went on, while I remained silent. “You see, when you start a fire like that, lots of live sparks are carried up the chimney, and it’s just a mercy that there are not more houses burned than there are on account of it. I say it for your good, Leslie, when I say that I hope this will be a lesson to you; you’ve had a narrow escape. My! but it makes me shudder to think of it!”
As she stopped talking to shudder more effectively I ventured to make an observation that, it was strange, had occurred to neither Jessie nor herself:
“It took that spark—supposing the fire was started by a spark from the chimney—a long time to fall, didn’t it? It was after twelve when the fire broke out, and I had supper at six, besides—” but there I checked myself. The more I thought the matter over, the more desirable it seemed that I should keep to myself the dreadful certainty that I felt in regard to the origin of the fire. If people liked to believe that it was caused by some negligence or carelessness of mine, it would only complicate matters, beside robbing them of a comfortable conviction, for me to tell that I had had no fire on the previous evening. Yet such was the case. I had made my solitary meal of bread and milk.
“What a girl you are, to be sure!” Mrs. Horton exclaimed, in genuine admiration, as we turned back into the house. “Now, why couldn’t Jessie or I think of that! Twelve hours to fall! No, it would have been six hours falling, wouldn’t it? You said the fire broke out about midnight. Well, you can think of more things and keep more quiet about them than any ten men that ever I saw. When I think of anything I like to tell of it, and I expect likely that’s the reason that I never think of real smart things; I don’t hold on to them long enough; I pick them before they’re ripe.”