To a lad of George Fairburn’s stamp such a prospect was glorious.  “I’m quite ready to go, mother,” he announced, “on the brig’s very next trip.”  Mother and father made no reply, but the former turned away to hide her tears.  The lad must go and begin his new life.  For a few days all was bustle and preparation, George in the seventh heaven of delight.  The long voyage in a grimy and uncomfortable collier had no terrors for him; he was too much accustomed to coal dust for that.  And was there not a chance that before the Thames was reached he might see a brush with a Frenchman?

The last evening at home for him came, and he took a stroll to get a final look at the familiar surroundings.  It was now the very heart of summer, the weather glorious:  could any boy be sad at such a time, even though there was before him the parting from home, from an indulgent and much-loved mother, from a just and honourable as well as affectionate father?  George whistled and sang as he wandered across the fields, careless whither his footsteps led him.

As fate would have it, he was proceeding generally in the direction of Mr. Blackett’s great house, Binfield Towers, a mansion almost entirely hidden by thick woods from the public gaze.  George knew these woods well, with their acres of bluebells and their breadths of primroses in the Spring, and their wealth of dogroses in June.  He turned into the footpath that crossed the plantations, and presently found himself gazing at the mansion a hundred yards away.  The place was almost new, the style that was known in later days as Queen Anne’s.  But George knew nothing of architectural styles, and was idly counting the multitude of windows when he was startled by a cracked old voice calling to him from the other side of the fence that separated the wood from the grassplots in front of the house.

“For God’s sake, come along and help, my good lad,” cried an old man in livery, beckoning him frantically.

“What’s the matter?” George asked quickly.

“The house is on fire,” was the reply, “and there’s nobody at home but the women folk, except old Reuben, and he’s just about as much use as me, and that’s none at all, I reckon.”

“Where’s Mr. Blackett?” the lad asked as he cleared the fence at a bound, and stood by the old man’s side on the lawn.

“Gone off to a party, and young Master Matthew with him.  Run and do what you can, for Heaven’s sake, and I’ll follow.”

George bounded across the grass like a hare, and bolted into the house without ceremony, for he now perceived smoke issuing from several of the front windows.  In the hall he found old Reuben, the aged butler, whom Mr. Blackett still provided with a home, doing what he could to stay the progress of the flames, by throwing upon the burning staircase little pailfuls of water brought by the maid servants.  But, in truth most of the women were screaming, and those who were not were fainting.