"She's going," muttered Guy sorrowfully.
Yes, once the fire got hold of the sun-dried pine of which the house was built the flames rushed up in great leaping columns. The place burned like a tar barrel, and the glow became so intense that Guy shrank away further into the woods for fear of being observed by any one who might possibly have been attracted by the blaze.
Still he could not tear himself away from the sight of the destruction of his old home. Sheltering behind a huge pine trunk, he watched till, with a loud crash and a hurricane of sparks, the roof fell in, and of the shanty no more remained than a shapeless pile.
With a deep sigh Guy Hereford turned away, and never stopped until at four o'clock in the morning he boarded the south-bound mail train at the small wayside station of Kissochee.
"Any letter for George Hatfield?"
The smart clerk took up a bundle of letters, ran them rapidly through, and flung them down. "Nope!"
Guy Hereford's face fell.
"Quite sure?" he asked.
The clerk glared.