at the drop into the meadow below, but Grace's climbing
lessons had not been given in vain, and, without a moment's hesitation,
she followed Peggy down the old willow-tree, landing knee-deep in fern
below.

Now they could hear the roar of the flames, the crackling and snapping
of burning wood, and, looking up, they saw on the brow of the rise
beyond, the flames tossing and beckoning over the dark firs of
Silverfield.

Five minutes more, and, breathless with running, they stood on the lawn
before the burning house.

The side facing them was already wrapped in flames. Long wavering
tongues shot through the open windows, and curled round the woodwork,
lapping it; they purred and chuckled like live creatures over their
food; they leaped up toward the roof, running along its edge, feeling
their way higher and higher, while now and then one sprang aloft,
tossing its scarlet crest over the rooftree itself. Evidently the fire
had started in the upper story, for in the lower one, though the smoke
poured dense and black through the open windows, there were no flames
to be seen yet. Furniture, books, and knick-knacks of every description
were scattered about the lawn in wild confusion, and two men, half
stifled with smoke, were struggling frantically with a grand piano, one
hacking at the window-frame with an axe to widen the opening, the other
trying desperately to unscrew the legs, as if that would mend matters.
Seven people out of ten, at a fire, will leave untouched pictures and
books that can never be replaced, and spend their time and energies in
trying to save the piano.

The group of frightened women huddled together on the lawn had made
their attempt, too, to save some of their mistress's property. Even in
her terror and anguish, Margaret could hardly keep back the thought of a
smile at their aspect. One clasped a sofa-pillow, one a pair of vases. A
stout woman, evidently the cook, had a porcelain kettle on either arm,
and another on her head, while her hands clutched a variety of spoons,
ladles, cups, and dippers. She evidently had her wits about her more
than the others, and she was scolding the parlor-maid, a trembling,
weeping creature, who was holding a small china bowl in both hands, as
if it were a royal treasure.

"She likes her malted milk in it, you know she does, Mary," said the
girl. "Only yesterday she was telling me never bring her any bowl except
this. It's cruel of you to harry me for trying to save