“We’ve slept standing up for three weeks,” Fyfe said simply.  “They’ve done everything they could.  And we’re not through yet.  A north wind might set Charlie’s timber afire in a dozen places.”

“Oh, for a rain,” she sighed.

“If wishing for rain brought it,” he laughed, “we’d have had a second flood.  We’ve got to keep pegging away till it does rain, that’s all.  We can’t do much, but we have to keep doing it.  You’ll have to go back to the Springs to-morrow, I’m afraid, Stella.  I’ll have to stay on the firing line, literally.”

“I don’t want to,” she cried rebelliously.  “I want to stay up here with you.  I’m not wax.  I won’t melt.”

She continued that argument into the house, until Fyfe laughingly smothered her speech with kisses.

* * * * *

An oddly familiar sound murmuring in Stella’s ear wakened her.  At first she thought she must be dreaming.  It was still inky dark, but the air that blew in at the open window was sweet and cool, filtered of that choking smoke.  She lifted herself warily, looked out, reached a hand through the lifted sash.  Wet drops spattered it.  The sound she heard was the drip of eaves, the beat of rain on the charred timber, upon the dried grass of the lawn.

Beside her Fyfe was a dim bulk, sleeping the dead slumber of utter weariness.  She hesitated a minute, then shook him.

“Listen, Jack,” she said.

He lifted his head.

“Rain!” he whispered.  “Good night, Mister Fire.  Hooray!”

“I brought it,” Stella murmured sleepily.  “I wished it on Roaring Lake to-night.”

Then she slipped her arm about his neck, and drew his face down to her breast with a tender fierceness, and closed her eyes with a contented sigh.

THE END