“Yes, it is; I mean it was; and now what’s this?”
“Why, it’s a burnt place,” said Dotty; “don’t you know anything, Tate?”
“A burnt place? We don’t live near a burnt place. I don’t know where we are any more,” said Tate, sitting down and beginning to cry.
Dotty looked around quite bewildered. Neither did she know where they were. She presumed they must be in Portland, for they had not had time to be blown out of the city. Yes, it was Portland; but what street? The late fire had swept away all the old “landmarks,” and where there had been buildings were now only black ruins. Tate and Dotty were not the first who had been confused by these heaps of brick and mortar; many older people had lost their way that winter.
Dotty tried to peer through the moving sheets of snow-flakes, but only grew more and more confused.
“This must be somewhere else,” concluded she, “somewhere else—a great way off.”
“May be it’s Cape ’Liz’beth,” said Tate, crying afresh.
“Tate Penny, get up, or you’ll die; that’s the way to freeze to death.”