“Wonder if I turned out that oil stove,” Mrs. Gorham said thoughtfully.  “Seems like I smell something.  Shad,” raising her voice, “do you get up and go out in that ‘ell’ room and see if I turned out that fire under the syrup.  I smell smoke.”

“Oh, Lord,” groaned Shad, laying aside his cherished instrument.  “You could smell ice if you half tried.”

He got up lumberingly and sauntered out through the kitchen into the long lean-to addition, that was used as a summer kitchen now, and the moment he opened the door there poured out a thick volume of black smoke and flying soot.  The old-fashioned oil stove had a way of letting its wicks “work up,” as Shad said, if left too long to its own devices.

There was a spurt of flame from the woodwork behind the stove, and Shad slammed the door to, and ran for the water bucket.

It seemed incredible how fast the flames spread.  Summoned by his outcry, the girls formed a bucket brigade from the well to the kitchen door, while Shad, his mouth bound around in a drenched Turkish towel, fought the blaze single handed.

Mrs. Gorham made straight for the telephone, calling up the Judge, and two or three of the nearest neighbors for help.  The Peckham boys from the sawmill were the first to respond, and five minutes later Hiram was on the spot, having seen the rising smoke and flare in the sky from Maple Lawn.

“You’ll never save the place,” old Mr. Peckham told them flatly.  “The well’s low and everything is dry as tinder.  Better start carrying things out, girls, because the best we men-folks can do is to keep the roofs wet down and try to save the barn.”

While the fire was confined to the “ell” kitchen, the two older Peckham boys set to work up-stairs, under Jean’s direction.  Kit had made for her father’s room the first thing.  When Jean opened the door she found her piling the contents of the desk and chiffonier drawers helter-skelter into blankets.

“It’s all right, Jean,” she called.  “I’m not missing a thing.  You tie the corners up and have the boys carry these down-stairs and bring back the clothes-basket and a couple of tubs for the books.  Tell Helen to take the canaries out.”

“Doris has them, and Gladsome, too,” answered Jean.  “And Mrs. Gorham is getting all of the preserves out of the cellar, and Mr. Peckham says he’s sure they’ll save the piano and most of the best furniture, but, oh, Kit, just think of how father and mother will feel when they see the flames in the sky, and know it’s Greenacres burning.”

“You’d better start in at mother’s room and stop cogitating, or we’ll be sliding down a lightning rod to get out of here.”

Nobody quite noticed Helen in the excitement, but later when all was over, it was found that she had rescued all the treasures possible, the pictures and bric-a-brac, the sofa pillows and all the linen and family silver that had been packed away in the bottom of the sideboard.