The next morning, according to promise, Ishmael rendered himself at the appointed hour at the professor’s cottage.  They set out together upon their day’s round of professional visits.  The forenoon was spent at Squire Hall’s in mending a pump, fitting up some rain pipes, and putting locks on some of the cabin doors.  Then they got their dinner.  The afternoon was spent at old Mr. Truman’s in altering the position of the lightning rod, laying a hearth, and glazing some windows.  And there they got their tea.  The evening was spent in leading the exercises of the colored people’s missionary meeting at Colonel Mervin’s.  As the session was rather long, it was after ten o’clock before they left the meetinghouse on their return home.  The night was pitch dark; the rain, that had been threatening all day long, now fell in torrents.

They had a full four miles walk before them; but the professor had an ample old cotton umbrella that sheltered both himself and his pupil; so they trudged manfully onward, cheering the way with lively talk instead of overshadowing it with complaints.

“Black as pitch! not a star to be seen! but courage, my boy! we shall enjoy the light of the fireside all the more when we get home,” said the professor.

“Yes! there’s one star, professor, just rising,—­rising away there on the horizon beyond Brudenell Hall,” said Ishmael.

“So there is a star, or—­something! it looks more like the moon rising; only there’s no moon,” said Morris, scrutinizing the small dull red glare that hung upon the skirts of the horizon.

“It looks more like a bonfire than either, just now,” added the boy, as the lurid red light suddenly burst into flame.

“It is! it is a large fire!” cried the professor, as the whole sky became suddenly illuminated with a red glare.

“It is Brudenell Hall in flames!” exclaimed Ishmael Worth, in horror.  “Let us hurry on and see if we can do any good.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FIRE AT BRUDENELL HALL.

  Seize then the occasion; by the forelock take
  That subtle power the never halting time,
  Lest a mere moment’s putting off should make
  Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.

  —­Wordsworth.

Through the threefold darkness of night, clouds, and rain they hurried on towards that fearful beacon light which flamed on the edge of the horizon.

The rain, which continued to pour down in torrents, appeared to dampen without extinguishing the fire, which blazed and smoldered at intervals.

“Professor?” said the boy, as they toiled onward through the storm.

“Well, young Ishmael?”

“It seems to me the fire is inside the house.”

“Why so, young Ishmael?”

“Because if it wasn’t, this storm would put it out at once!  Why, if it had been the roof that caught from a burning chimney this driving rain would have quenched it in no time.”