“Tom—you came up—I remember now. But David, was that true?”
“All true, dear. But don’t think about it now!” David said. And Gabrielle closed her eyes for what seemed a long time again. The man her poor little mother had loved had been Roger Fleming! Roger was her father.
“Does Tom believe it?” the girl whispered, after a while.
“Oh, yes. He is very—very fine about it, Gay,” David said. “There will be no arguing, no trouble for you, dear. Can you—can you—not worry about it?”
“But, David,” she was more like herself every minute now, and spoke with a voice full of its own peculiar vitality, “what happened?”
“Fire, dear. Wastewater’s going, Gabrielle! In an hour the old place will be gone!”
“Wastewater!” she echoed, in a whisper. And for the first time she turned her eyes toward the source of the glow. Three hundred yards away, and lighting up the whole black world upon the wild winter night, the old house was one roaring mass of flames.
“Tom?” the girl asked, instantly. “Did he—he was with us—did everyone——”
“Everyone is safe, dear! Some of the maids had gone in to Crowchester when John took in his wife. The others are here. Sylvia was the coolest of all; she was asleep, but she had time to grab some clothes—got out easily! Aunt Flora was in the downstairs sitting room, where I had left her—she’s here. I think the shock has been terrible, but she is safe. You fainted, seemed to come to just as we got you down here, and then fainted—or went off into a sort of swoon—again. But now you feel all right?”
“Perfectly! Even my head. But, David—I want to see Tom.”