ning, and the
roar of flames under headway; the sky was tinged with the red glow, the
garden took on a festal air, with all its vines and flowers lighted up.

Mr. Moore did not stop to look at this, nor to call the flames "grand."
In the first place, he did not think them grand, eating up as they were
a good house and a large quantity of most excellent furniture. In the
second, he had not time for adjectives, he was bent upon saving a
certain low bookcase he remembered, which stood in the upper hall. He
had always admired that bookcase, he had never seen one before that was
unconnected with associations of step-ladders, or an equally insecure
stepping upon chairs.

He jammed his hat hard down upon his forehead again (he should certainly
be obliged to have a new one), and ran back into the house. But the
flames had now reached the lower hall, they had burned down as well as
up; he was obliged to content himself with a hat-stand near the door. As
he was dragging this out he heard shouts, and recognized the voices as
those of negro women; when he had reached the lawn, there they were,
Dinah and Rose and four other women; they had seen the light, and had
come running from their cabins, half a mile down the shore. They were
greatly excited; one young girl, black as coal, jumped up and down,
bounding high like a ball each time; she was unconscious of what she was
doing, her eyes were on the roaring flames, every now and then she gave
a tremendous yell. Old Rose and Dinah wept and bewailed aloud.

"Dar goes de settin'-room winders--_ow_!"

"Dar goes de up-steers chimbly--_ow_!"

Another of the women, a thin old creature, clapped her hands
incessantly on her legs, and shouted, "De glory's a-comin', de glory's
a-comin', a-comin'!"

Mr. Moore deposited his hat-stand under a tree, and standing still for a
moment, wiped his hot forehead. He did not attempt to stop their
shouting, he knew that it would be useless; he thought with regret of
that bookcase.

And now there came a shout louder, or at least more agonized, than any
of the others, and round the corner of the house appeared the boy
Primus; he ran towards them, shouting still, with each step he almost
fell--"She's _dar_--Mis' Horrel!"

He too had seen the light, and, approaching the place from the south, he
had passed, in running towards the front, the narrow high south wing;
here at a window he had seen a face--the face of Margaret Harold.

Mr. Moore was gone at t