On the banks of the Oma-ha!”
Annie stopped singing. “Dolly mus’ lie down in her twadle, an’ mamma mate her some tea!” Hester heard her say. At another time she would have speculated, perhaps anxiously, as to the processes going on when the clatter of metal and the tinkle of china arose, accompanied by the fitful bursts of song and a monologue of exclamations.
“Oh! oh! tate tare, dee papa!” came presently in a frightened tone. Then louder: “Papa! dee papa! wate up! you’ll det afire!”
Wee feet raced across the hall, a round face, red and scared, appeared in the doorway.
“Hetter! Hetter! tum, wate up dee papa! ’E bed is on fire!”
Through the doors left open behind her Hester saw a lurid glare, a column of smoke.
Shrieking for help at the top of her feeble lungs she plied the levers of her chair and rolled rapidly into the burning room. Upon the table at the foot of the bed had stood the spirit lamp and copper teakettle used by Mrs. Wayt in heating her husband’s phosphate draughts at night. Annie had lighted the lamp and contrived to knock it over upon the bed. The alcohol had ignited and poured over the counterpane.
Mr. Wayt lay, unstirring, amid the running flames. Hester made straight for him, leaned far out of her chair, to pull off the blazing covers, “Papa! papa! papa!”
He had not heard the word from her in ten years. He was not to hear it now.
Mrs. Wayt, Hetty, March Gilchrist, and the servants, rushing to the spot, found father and child enwrapped in the same scorching pall.