He never left his charge until the charge was fast asleep—sung to sleep by himself. Then he went off to his little room in the far-away wing of the house. And in an hour or two he wished devoutly that he had stretched himself at the charge's door. For the farmstead was on fire, and when he woke to realize it there was a raging sea of flame between him and the child, and folk in the yard and garden were shrieking and moaning—in their helplessness.
But the man got there in time—in time for the child, but not for himself. They talk in all that countryside to this day of how he fought his way through the flames, how he dropped the child into outstretched arms beneath, safe, and then fell back to death.
Upon what they found left of him the farmer gazed with eyes which were wet for the first time since he had last shed tears for his dead wife. And he said something to the poor body which doubtless the soul heard far off.
"You were a Man!" he said. "You were a real Man!"
And then he suddenly remembered that he had never known the Man's name.
CHAPTER VII
WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID
The trouble at Five Oaks Farm really began when Matthew Dennison built and started a model dairy, and found it necessary to engage the services of a qualified dairymaid. A good many people in the neighbourhood wondered what possessed Matthew to embark on such an enterprise, and said so. Matthew cared nothing for comment; he had in his pocket, he said (as he was very fond of saying), something that made him independent of whatever anybody might think or say. It was his whim to build the model dairy, just as it is the whim of some men to grow roses or to breed prize sheep at great cost, and he built it. It was all very spick and span when it was finished, and the countryside admired its many beauties and modern appliances without understanding much about them. And then came the question of finding a thoroughly expert dairymaid.
Somebody—probably the vicar—advised Matthew to advertise in one of the farming papers, and he and his wife and their only son, William Henry, accordingly spent an entire evening in drafting a suitable announcement of their wishes, which they forwarded next day to several journals of a likely nature. During the next fortnight answers began to come in, and the family sat in committee every evening after high tea considering them gravely. It was not until somewhere about fifty or sixty of these applications had been received, however, that one of a really promising nature turned up. This was from one Rosina Durrant, who wrote from somewhere in Dorsetshire. She described herself as being twenty-five years of age, thoroughly qualified to take entire charge of a model dairy, and anxious to have some experience in the North of England. She gave particulars of her past experience, set forth particulars of the terms she expected, and enclosed a splendid testimonial from her present employer, who turned out to be a well-known countess.
Matthew rubbed his hands.