The stir in the village had not extended to these outlying fields, which were all deserted, as became a holiday. A woman stood in the doorway of the house, watching the blaze. One man was running off, shouting for help, and another was carrying two buckets of water towards the barn.
He came up to Mr. Harlow and put the buckets on the ground.
“There ain’t any use in carryin’ water,” he said, “not a mite o’ use, only it seemed sort o’ natural to do it. Just look at those flames!”
“The engine ought to hurry up if it’s going to do any good,” said Mr. Harlow.
“Can’t do a particle of good if it does come. There ain’t any water here—that is, not more than a teacupful; well and cistern’s dry as a bone.”
“The house will not catch,” said Mr. Harlow; “the wind is the other way. You are sure there was no one in the barn?”
“Sure,” said the man.
They were gazing at the flames, which enveloped one end of the structure. Another moment, and there was a deafening crash through the roar of the fire; half of the barn had fallen in, and revealed beyond, high up on one of the big beams of the rafters, the white faces and crouching forms of six little children, huddled close together. Playing in the loft, they had climbed higher and higher back, to get out of reach of the flames.
A cry of horror broke from the two onlookers. The next instant the man, wildly shrieking for help, followed Mr. Harlow, who sped towards the barn.
The flames that had left one part of the building still untouched were rapidly curling round it, lighting up the faces of the children. The roof sloped with a sharp pitch, but there were a couple of projecting ledges below it.