When Fortescue saw the thin cloud of smoke curling upward from the roof of Holly Lodge, he sprang up, and, still in his evening clothes and dancing pumps, ran downstairs, ringing bells and shouting aloud as he ran. The servants flocked out half-dressed, and Fortescue, calling to them to follow him and bring buckets with them, sped across the open field to Holly Lodge. Quiet and still was the house in the dawn of the wintry morning, and apparently asleep. The burning roof had not yet awakened the household, as the smoke and flames were borne upward. Fortescue hammered at the little front door, and, as the flames began to crackle, put his shoulder to the door and burst it in by main force. The Colonel, in his dressing-gown and slippers, was just coming out of his bedroom on the first floor, and at that minute Kettle, struggling into his trousers, rushed into the hall, followed by Aunt Tulip and Uncle Cesar in very sketchy toilettes, Kettle shouting:

“The house is afire, an’ Miss Betty, she upsty’ars!”

Fortescue ran up the narrow stair, two steps at a time. As he reached the landing, Betty opened her door. She was dressed as when she left the ball; even the wreath of ivy leaves on her rich hair was undisturbed. It was not necessary to tell her what was the matter. The shouts and cries below and the roaring and crackling of the flames were enough. Fortescue seized her cloak off a chair and threw it around her, then they both fled downstairs. The roof over the little kitchen wing was burning furiously as the heat melted the snow, but a white mantle lay heavily upon the other part of the roof, and it seemed possible to save the house. By that time the servants from Rosehill had come running, and Fortescue, throwing off his coat, climbed upon the roof and organized a bucket brigade. It was hard work to save the little house, but, by the blessing of the snow and every possible device, it seemed as if the fire could be confined to the roof. It no longer raged and roared, but smouldered. On the lawn, Betty and the Colonel and Aunt Tulip, shivering in spite of being well wrapped up, watched the fight made against the fire, and led by Fortescue. Suddenly a cry went up: where was Kettle? Betty ran around the house, calling at the top of her voice:

“Kettle, Kettle, where are you?”

But there was no response. Then Betty, despite the Colonel’s efforts to hold her, rushed in the open door of the house, still calling frantically for Kettle. Fortescue saw her, and, swinging himself down from the roof, ran into the house after her. Outside, Colonel Beverley, his hands over his eyes, groaned aloud. Fortescue seized Betty in the little water drenched sitting-room, and, without a word, took her in his arms and carried her out. Betty resisted with all her girl’s strength. She was without fear, and naturally venturesome, and she felt that Kettle was being left to his fate, but there was a strange delight, a sudden joy, in being held close to Fortescue’s strongly beating heart. Then Fortescue went back to find Kettle. Although the fury of the fire was being subdued, great clouds of smoke were pouring through the house, and from the outside could be heard his voice shouting as he went from room to room, “Kettle! Kettle! Where are you?”

But there was no answer.

A vagrant gust of wind fanned the fire once more into flame, and it looked as if the house must go. The shingle roof over Betty’s room caught fire, and with a great roar and crackling the blaze leaped upward toward the lowering sky. Continually, Fortescue’s voice was heard calling for Kettle, as he searched the upper floor, blazing and dense with smoke. Suddenly his voice ceased, and no sound was heard except the roar of the flames and the cries and orders of those who were trying to save the little house. Betty’s heart stood still: suppose Fortescue should never come out of the house alive? She turned her head, with its graceful wreath of ivy leaves, away from the blazing house, and could have shrieked aloud in her agony of fear. Then, through the open door of the house, and in the midst of the dense smoke, she saw Fortescue staggering, and carrying a black object in his arms. It was Kettle, frightfully burned, but conscious. In his hands he clutched a little fan which was a part of Betty’s outfit for parties. One look at Fortescue showed that he was not badly injured, although half stifled by the smoke. No moan escaped from Kettle, but as Betty ran up he opened his eyes and, looking at her with a pitiful attempt at his usual merry grin, gasped out feebly:

“Miss Betty, I done save yo’ party fan.”

Betty burst into a flood of tears. At that moment a merciful downpour of rain came from the leaden sky. The roaring of the flames turned to a loud hissing and crackling as clouds of steam mounted upward. It was possible then to take Kettle into the house. The Colonel’s room had not been touched either by water or fire, and it was there that they carried Kettle.

“Somebody go for Dr. Markham!” cried Betty.

A dozen willing feet ran to the stable, and a dozen willing hands hitched up old Whitey to the rockaway, and Uncle Cesar, climbing into the little carriage, drove off furiously to the village two miles away. Meanwhile, Aunt Tulip and Betty applied such simple remedies as they knew to poor Kettle’s wounds. The Colonel stood by the boy, saying to him:

“Be a man, Kettle, be a little man. The doctor will soon be here.”

Betty, doing all she could to alleviate the little negro’s sufferings, was weeping bitterly.

“Doan’ you cry, Miss Betty,” gasped Kettle. “Why doan’ you do like me! I ain’ cryin’ none. I tried fust for to save ole Marse’s fiddle, an’ then yo’ party things, but I couldn’t git nothin’ but the fan, the fire bu’n me so hard.”

Kettle closed his eyes and knew no more for a time.

The fire was out, and the men from Rosehill climbed down from the roof. Under Fortescue’s direction, they made a great fire in the Colonel’s fireplace.

Then began the terrible waiting for the doctor to come. When Kettle could know no more whether Betty was sitting by him or not, she turned and saw Fortescue close beside her. The shock, the horror, the nearness of awful disaster, had torn away all reserve between them. As they looked into each other’s eyes, they forgot the presence of Aunt Tulip, still working over Kettle, and the Colonel sitting in a chair by the side of the pallet, his gray head bent, and the rare salt tears of age trickling upon his cheeks. Yet Betty and Fortescue spoke calmly and conventionally.

“How can I ever thank you enough?” said Betty, putting her hand into Fortescue’s. “Suppose the boy had died without any one trying to rescue him!”

“I couldn’t let the poor little chap die like a rat in a hole,” answered Fortescue.

“Perhaps, after all, it was in vain,” replied Betty; “but at least you tried to save him.”

Fortescue rose and went out. There was still work to be done. The drenched house had to be dried, fires made everywhere, planks found and nailed over the gaping roof.

And so the time passed until the crunching of the wheels upon the ground announced Dr. Markham’s arrival. The merciful downpour of rain continued, and, although it was six o’clock in the morning, the murky day was still dark. Dr. Markham walked into the room and made a swift examination of Kettle.

“Will he live?” asked Betty.

“Perhaps so,” replied Dr. Markham. “It is a bad case, but he may pull through.”