When the Riches were nearing home on the afternoon mail tug, they found the river covered with dense smoke. There was evidently a forest fire not far away in the west, but as their own peninsula had not been touched by fire in seventy years, they gave it little thought.

Having brought an overjoyed Agricola from the post-office, they crept down the river in the dory. Not a steamer was moving. At their pier lay a launch containing an open satchel and some articles of dress, as if some man had hurriedly changed his clothes. Surprised at this, they hastened to the house to see who had come, but found everything locked and shipshape.

Agricola was off, and presently they heard his familiar bark, followed by a moo.

“He is chasing Mr. Gillies’ cow home,” said Jean, and went on opening windows.

But the barking and mooing continued, and they walked up to the barn. There stood Agricola in the open door informing a cow that she was a beauty. Something brought tears to Jean’s eyes as she read aloud the card attached to the cow’s horn:

“My name is Sempronia the Second, and if you want to know who bought me, look on the wall.”

Turning, Jean perceived a sheet of foolscap tacked to the logs. On it were the names of thirty persons. Then the smoke seemed to affect the doctor’s eyes, too, and he stood in silence, holding Jean by one hand and petting Sempronia with the other.

But while they stood there Agricola deserted them and was exploring his old domain. As father and daughter were walking back to the house they heard him again, this time with a different cadence, and they mounted the hill.

Deer after deer sprang up. Refugee rabbits scurried in every direction. Butterflies swarmed by the thousands. The smoke grew thicker and thicker, and a little sound of crackling could be heard. They quickened their steps, descended past the garden, and penetrated the balsams. The air grew hotter and hotter.

They came to their fire-ditch and stood in amazement Between the ditch and the creek the land lay bare in both directions. Only a few black trunks, blazing near the tops, remained of eight acres of woodland.

“Weel, doctor, it’s not so bad, conseedering.”

They turned to the left. There beside the fire-ditch lay the Scotchman, his eyes bloodshot, his spray of yellow beard partly gone, his overalls burned and torn, his shoes covered with clay and ashes.

“Thank God you were here, my friend. What with giving me new live-stock and saving my house, you have put me in debt for the rest of my life. How could you do it, single-handed?”

“Na, not single-handed. Look aboot ye. Ye’ll find them lying all along the trench. But yon’s the mon that really did it.”

Gillies pointed to an abject figure that sat with its grizzled head almost on its knees.

The doctor approached the silent figure.

“My dear sir, whoever you are, the English language fails me.”

“Say it in Greek. My boy says it flows like wine in your house.”

“Why, daddy, his poor back is almost burned to a crisp. Give me your knife. You needn’t be afraid, sir—my father’s knife is always sharp.”

The flesh quivered as Jean deftly cut away the back of the shirt, but the voice was silent. Then with a swift movement she removed the front, leaving the torso bare to the waist.

“You are as brave as a lion, sir, and I know who you are.”

“Do you? Then I know who you are. You are the elderly spinster who wrote me that her age was twenty-one. I came up here to complete a transaction. I want your island.”

“You may have it.”

“For how much?”

“For nothing. I’ll pick up that island and put it in your arms.”

On the way over he told her about the fight, which had lasted several hours. Some hunter had taken advantage of the doctor’s absence to get a deer out of season, and had accidentally set fire to the woods in the process.

She seated the injured man on the porch and went into the house for things she needed. It took her some time because she had to make a fire. When she came out, he was still sitting with his eyes closed.

“Your Duckling must be a charming thing to look at when the smoke does not hide it.”

“Yes.”

“There’s a lump in your throat, little Miss Rich. Do you love that island for its beauty?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must not part with it.”

He felt a soft warm sponge begin to smooth his arm. He felt it go into his armpit. It stole over his chest, down to his waist around to the other arm. A soft towel followed, till his whole front was dry and clean. Then she began on his back, very softly.

“Are you using a solution?”

“Yes. Horatio must have known you were coming, for he left us a little picric acid.”

“It feels good.”

On learning that he would not be able to wear a coat again in several days. Chase Mahan declared that it would ease his pain if he had something to do. If it rained, he’d like to clean up the burned tract. Might he count on the fire-fighters to return for two or three days and bring their axes?

That night the home-comers slept to the welcome sound of rain on the roof, but Chase Mahan sat up till nearly dawn, forgetting his wounds in the Tacitus which he had himself discovered.

The next day went as planned. Down came the charred stubs, and were heaped and burned. On the second day the farmers came again with teams and scrapers, and the morning of the third day dawned on a beautiful smooth plaisance.