always surround such a scene, and the hiss of water.

A turn of the road; Holly Court at last. Her escort murmured
something, but Nancy did not answer. She had only one sick glance
for the scene before them; the fringe of watchers about the house,
the village fire-company struggling and shouting over the
pitifully inadequate hose, the shining singed timbers of Holly
Court. A great funnel of heat swept up above the house, and the
green under-leaves on the trees crackled and crisped. From the
casement windows smoke trickled or puffed, the roof was falling,
in sections, and at every crash and every uprush of sparks the
crowd uttered a sympathetic gasp.

The motor, curving up on the lawn, passed the various other
vehicles that obstructed the drive. As the mistress of the house
arrived, and was recognized, there was a little pitiful stir in
the crowd. Nancy remembered some of this long afterward,
remembered seeing various household goods--the piano, and some
rugs, and some loose books--carefully ranged at one side,
remembered a glimpse of Pauline crying, and chattering French, and
Pierre patting his wife's shoulder. She saw familiar faces, and
unfamiliar faces, as in a dream.

But under her dream hammered the one agonized question: The
children--the children--ah, where were they? Nancy stumbled from
the car, asked a sharp question. The villager who heard it
presented her a blank and yet not unkindly face. He didn't know,
ma'am, he didn't know anything--he had just come.

She knew now that she was losing her reason, that she would never