t to something. Fearful dry, it is getting to be."

The doctor was a true prophet. The next alarm did amount to something. One
morning about half past seven, there echoed in the narrow streets of
Seamont a cry that plain meant bad news. Will Somers heard, and might be
said to have _seen_, that cry. He had taken down the shutters of his
employer's store, and was hanging in the windows two very gaudily lettered
placards, "A balm for all, Jenkins's Soporific," "The need of an aching
world, Muggins's Liniment." Will heard that magic cry, "Fire--re--re!" He
turned and saw a man coming down the street. He was not only coming, but
running, his hat off, and his mouth open wide enough to take in a ten-cent
loaf of brown bread, Will thought.

"Woolen mill on fire!"

"Woolen mill!" gasped Will, and his first thought was, "glory enough for
one day."

The woolen mill was in a pretty little hollow, a nest whose walls were
spreading elm-trees. The mill was a relic of the old industries of the
place and represented a vain effort to make Seamont a "manufacturing
center."

"Then the fire is down in the hollow," thought Will. He saw somebody
approaching who he thought might be a customer, but he quickly decided the
question whether he owed a greater duty to one person or to many--the
public--by turning the key in the lock of the door. Then he hurried away.
As he rushed to the house of the "Cataract," he stopped at the door of Dr.
Tilton's home.

"There," he said to Biddy Flannigan, who answered, "tell the doctor
there's a tremendous alarm in town, and I thought he might want me to go,
as he is an owner, and here is the key."

"What?" said Biddy.

"Woolen mill's afire, tell him."

"Woolen Mill Sophia! Who is she?" wondered Biddy, and she went to report
to the doctor.

"Faith, sir, yer clerk says there is a tremenjus 'larm in town and it's
about Woolen Mill Sophia, and here is the key, sir."

"Woolen-mill what?" asked the doctor. "I am an owner up there."

"Indade! It must be that Sophia works up there."

"Sophia?" the doctor asked, and then stared at her and exclaimed, "It is
'woolen mill's afire!' My! Where are my boots? Quick! Bertha, bring down
my boots, please."

This last request was shouted up stairs to his niece, Bertha Barry, who
was making a brief visit at the doctor's. Bertha quickly appeared, boots
in hand, her blue eyes looking bright and fresh as the spring violets just
gathered from the fields.

"Bertha, i