a chair, a rifle over his knee, and amused
himself with snapping the lock; but I could see that his ebullition of
light spirits (the only one I ever knew him to display) had already come
to an end, and was succeeded by a sullen, scowling humor.

All this time our assailants might have been entering the house, and we
been none the wiser; we had in truth almost forgotten the danger that so
imminently overhung our days. But just then Mr. Huddlestone uttered a cry,
and leaped from the bed.

I asked him what was wrong.

"Fire!" he cried. "They have set the house on fire!"

Northmour was on his feet in an instant, and he and I ran through the door
of communication with the study. The room was illuminated by a red and
angry light. Almost at the moment of our entrance, a tower of flame arose
in front of the window, and, with a tingling report, a pane fell inward on
the carpet. They had set fire to the lean-to outhouse, where Northmour
used to nurse his negatives.

"Hot work," said Northmour. "Let us try in your old room."

We ran thither in a breath, threw up the casement, and looked forth. Along
the whole back wall of the pavilion piles of fuel had been arranged and
kindled; and it is probable they had been drenched with mineral oil, for,
in spite of the morning's rain, they all burned bravely. The fire had
taken a firm hold already on the outhouse, which blazed higher and higher
every moment; the back door was in the center of a red-hot bonfire; the
eaves we could see, as we looked upward, were already smoldering, for the
roof overhung, and was supported by considerable beams of wood. At the
same time, hot, pungent, and choking volumes of smoke began to fill the
house. There was not a human being to be seen to right or left.

"Ah, well!" said Northmour, "here's the end, thank God!"

And we returned to My Uncle's Room. Mr. Huddlestone was putting on his
boots, still violently trembling, but with an air of determination such as
I had not hitherto observed. Clara stood close by him, with her cloak in
both hands ready to throw about her shoulders, and a strange look in her
eyes, as if she were half hopeful, half doubtful of her father.

"Well, boys and girls," said Northmour, "how about a sally? The oven is
heating; it is not good to stay here and be baked; and, for my part, I
want to come to my hands with them, and be done."

"There's nothing else left," I replied.

And both Clara and Mr. Huddlestone, though with a ve