Eleanor looked grave. She shaded her eyes with her hand, and stared ahead of her.
“Oh,” she cried, “what a shame! I remember now. There was a farm house there! I’m afraid we were wrong when we spoke of there being no houses in the path of this fire!”
They pressed on steadily, and, as they approached the group forlorn, distressed and unhappy, they saw that their fears were only too well grounded. The people in the road were staring, with drawn faces, at a scene of ruin and desolation that far outdid the burnt wastes beside the road, since what they were looking at represented human work and the toil of hands.
The foundations of a farm house were plainly to be seen, the cellar filled with the charred wood of the house itself, and in what had evidently been the yard there were heaps of ashes that showed where the barns and other buildings had stood.
In the road, staring dully at the girls as they came up, were two women and a boy about seventeen years old, as well as several young children.
Eleanor looked at them pityingly, and then spoke to the older of the two women.
“You seem to be in great trouble,” she said. “Is this your house?”
“It was!” said the woman, bitterly. “You can see what’s left of it! What are you—picnickers? Be off with you! Don’t come around here gloating over the misfortunes of hard working people!”
“How can you think we’d do that?” said Eleanor, with tears in her eyes. “We can see that things look very bad for you. Have you any place to go—any home?”
“You can see it!” said the woman, ungraciously.