"Yes, yes," said Preston; "I'll be there in just sixteen minutes, if you don't speak again."
"Some takes the apples, and makes cider of them. Old cider is yoused for vinegar.
"Preston S. Gray."
This ended the "compersition;" but, in Preston's haste to keep his word and get to bed in just sixteen minutes, he made a mistake, and wrote on the back of it, "Potatoes."
He smiled to see Flaxie sound asleep already, then knelt down, and prayed, "Now I lay me," with a very solemn feeling. The house seemed strangely quiet. Where could Dodo be? Preston had heard the last train rush by a half-hour before.
"I think God will be sure to take care of me to-night, so I can take care of Flaxie," thought he, creeping into bed. "He must know father and mother have gone off, and Flaxie isn't much more'n a baby." And, with that, he fell asleep, holding little sister by the hand.
About midnight, he was wakened by the smell of smoke. If he had not been downstairs, and if he had not felt, even in sleep, the care of the house, I dare say he would not have waked. "What's this? Why, what is it?" thought he, raising himself on his elbow, and sniffing.
The bedroom opened out of the sitting-room, and the kitchen was just beyond. That was where the smoke must come from; for it was the only room that had a fire in it.
Preston rose softly, and went into the kitchen. It was on fire!