Angelina dropped her load of holly and seized Bess’s arm.
“Look!” she cried. “Oh, look! Fire!”
And there was the two-family house in a horrible, reddish glare!
Of one accord they started running, battling against the wind. For a time Bess clung to her armful of holly, because she so hated throwing things away, but in the end it had to go. Their footsteps rang sharply on the frozen road. They were breathless and panting, but the world about them seemed strangely still—no shouts, no hurrying engines, no audible excitement. The two-family house was burning in solitary and awful splendor.
Angelina stumbled to her knees at the foot of the hill, and Bess helped her up. They heard the soft, rustling sound of flames, mounting unhindered.
“Where—is—everybody?” gasped Angelina. “Oh, Bess!”
They struggled on, and turned in at the gate. The front of the building was still untouched, and no one was there. They flew along the path to the back of the house. Two figures were standing there, motionless, sharply outlined against the red light—Professor Gayle and Tom Tench.
“Father!” cried Bess, with all the breath she had left. “Can’t you do anything?”
He answered in a voice that was positively ferocious:
“No! This is Mr. Tench’s fire. He is responsible, and he alone. His papers thrown upon the hot ashes—”