“Fires?” repeated Mary Louise sharply.
“Yes, fires. The Lord said in His holy Book that He would burn down the cities of pleasure because of the sins of the people. But I am sorry for the little children. I must help put out the fires with pure water from a well. I am Rebecca—at the well!”
Mary Louise was horror-stricken. This woman might indeed be the “firebug” whom she and Jane had considered as a possibility. Although she seemed to want to put fires out, perhaps she lighted them first for that very purpose.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t know where there is a well,” she replied. “But tell us where you live, Rebecca. We’ll take you home.”
The woman shook her head.
“No, no, I can’t go home. I must find water. There will be a fire tonight, and I must be ready to put it out. I must go.”
“Where will the fire be tonight?” demanded Mary Louise apprehensively.
“I don’t know. One of those wicked cottages, where the people go about half clad, and where they dance and feast until past midnight. I can’t tell you upon which the Lord’s anger will descend, but I know it will come. I know it. I must get water—pure water. I can’t have innocent children burned to death.”
“But who are you?” repeated Mary Louise.
“I am Rebecca. And I am going to meet my bridegroom at the well. My Isaac!” Her eyes gleamed with happiness as she trotted off down the hill, carrying that ridiculous pitcher in her hand.