his home.

"Where's the fire, Bob?" called a voice across the street.

"The old Macklin house," was the answer, tossed back over a man's
shoulder as he ran. Instantly there flashed into Alec's mind the
remembrance of the muslin curtains flapping across his face, and the
lamp left near them on his desk. Had he blown it out or not? He could
not remember. He tried to think as he dashed up the street after the
running crowds.

CHAPTER II.

There was no faster runner in the village than Alec Stoker. In the
last two field-day contests he had carried off the honours, and now
he surpassed all previous records in that mad dash from the hotel to
the burning house.

Swift as he was, however, the flames were bursting from the windows
of his room by the time he reached the gate, and curling up over the
eaves with long, licking tongues. It was as he had feared. He had
forgotten to put out the light, the curtains had blown over it, and,
fanned by the rising wind, the fire had leaped from curtain to bed,
from mosquito-bar to wall, until the whole room was in a blaze.

Shielded by the tall cedars in front of the house, it had burned some
time before a passing neighbour discovered it. By the time the alarm
brought any response, the upper story was full of stifling pine
smoke. The yard swarmed with neighbours when Alec reached it. In and
out they ran, bumping precious old family portraits against wash-tubs
and coal-scuttles, emptying bureau drawers into sheets, and dumping
books and dishes in a pile in the orchard, in wildest confusion.
Everything was taken out of the lower story. Even the carpets were
ripped up from the floors before the warning cry came to stand back,
that the roof was about to fall in. The fire brigade turned its
attention to saving the barn, but that was old, too, and burned like
tinder, as the breath of the approaching storm fanned the flames
higher and higher.

As Alec leaned back against the fence, breathless and flushed from
his frantic exertions, Philippa came up to him, carrying the parlour
clock and her best hat.

"Come on," she said; "we've got to get all these things under shelter
before the storm strikes us, or they'll be spoiled. Mrs. Sears has
offered us part of her house. There are four empty rooms in the west
wing, and Aunt Eunice says that we can't do any better than to take
them for awhile."

Again the neighbours came to the rescue, and, spurred on by the
warning thunder, hurried