On the last night of February the clock in Lizzī's room made one quick guess at the time, and brought her back from a flight of fancy. She was startled to see that it was one o'clock, and resumed the sewing that had lain neglected in her lap, while her thoughts roved.
She was sewing in secret, with the blind of the window down and her candle shaded. The garment she was fashioning was one of those almost shapeless infant robes that the inventive skill of dawning motherhood makes so diversely pretty and daintily ungraceful. She had begun to fold a plait in it, and paused to debate with herself on the size of the fold.
"If I was sure it would be a boy I'd make these pleats wider," she murmured.
From that her thoughts had wandered until she was recalled to her work by the striking of the clock. For another hour she worked diligently, then arose and put the sewing away where her mother would not be likely to find it. After that she blew out the candle and raised the blind for a last look that night at the store. The moonlight streamed into the window, dazzling her eyes accustomed to the candle-light. She shut them quickly in pain, and when she opened them a thrill of terror passed over her.
She saw a great column of smoke rising from the roof of the store, and a little flame leaping up through it.
The next moment, an axe in her hand, she was on the street.
"Fire! Fire! The store's on fire!"
Her clear voice rang wild and sharp on the still night air. The echoes mocked her.
"Colonel Hornberger, get up!"
With her axe's handle she rattled fierce blows on the front door of the proprietor's house.