“Built up? Why, it hasn’t been blown down.”
“No; burnt down.”
“Burnt! What, our house?”
“Yes.”
“But not my kitchen? Oh, Master George, don’t say that my kitchen has been burned too.”
“There’s nothing left of the place but a little firewood and a few scuttles of ashes.”
Sarah wrung her hands. “Oh dear—oh dear!” she cried, “why wasn’t I told before?”
“Never mind; you’ll soon be well again. You were not told for fear of worrying you; and as soon as we have got rid of the Indians my father will have the place all built up again, and it will be better than ever.”
“Never!” said Sarah, emphatically. “But you were not hurt, my dear, were you?”
“No,” I said, “only horribly frightened.”