Fascinated, she watched the moving figures of men pass and repass before the fire. They were leading the horses and cattle away from the stable. Poor things! No wonder the animals were afraid with those horrid sacks tied over their heads. It was a shame, too, that they could not see the pretty fire. For it was pretty. Mary, who loved bright colours, watched the sparks dance upon the wind and trail away in a cloud of smoke like the fireworks at Hardrascliffe during the season.
A sudden jolt of the cart as John clambered down aroused her, but still she did not move. She watched his indecisive movements, his hesitating steps towards the fire, his stumbling return towards the cart.
There was a small crowd in the road. Some one had recognized them now.
"That you, Mrs. Robson, that you?"
Even then Mary was glad that it was she to whom they called. "Yes. We're back. Take the pony to the other stables, some one, and please see that there's a rug put across him. We've come fast. Now then, who's in charge here?"
"Shep's getting the horses out. Foreman ain't back yet. Did you see young Mr. Rossitur on the road to Hardrascliffe? He went on his cycle to get t' engine."
"No—there was a man though, going to get the fire-engine."
Shepherd approached her, his face grimed with smoke. His blue eyes shone grimly.
"We've got the stock out, Mrs. Robson, but I doubt we'll save t' buildings. There's no water in t' pond and we can't get none fra' back till t' fire-engine comes and the hose."
"Have the far stables caught yet?"