"What is it?" Socola asked excitedly. "War has been declared? The slaves have risen?"
Jennie laughed.
"No—no! Grandmamma smells a smell. She thinks something is burning somewhere."
"Oh—"
The whole place, house, yard, grounds, outhouses, swarmed with bellowing negroes. Those that were not bellowing were muttering in sleepy, quarrelsome protest.
And they all carried candles to look for a fire in the dark!
There were at least seventy—two-thirds of them too old or too young to be of any service, but they belonged to the house.
The old Colonel's voice could be heard a mile. In his nightgown he was roaring from the balcony, giving his orders for the busy crowd hunting for fire with their candles flickering in the shadows.
Old Mrs. Barton, serenely deaf, was of course oblivious of the sensation she had created. The loss of her hearing had rendered doubly acute her sense of smell. Candles had to be taken out of her room to be snuffed. Lamps were extinguished only on the portico or on the lawn. Violets she couldn't endure. A tea rose was never allowed in her room. Only one kind of sweet rose would she tolerate at close range.