“They must own that nice place clear, if it ain’t going to burn to the ground, and have something in the bank besides,” assented Mrs. Peter Jones.

Ever so many people were running down the street with us, and the air seemed full of that brazen clang of the fire-bell; still we could not see any fire, nor even smell any smoke, until we got to the head of the lane where the Liscom house stands a few rods from the main street.

The lane was about choked up with the fire-engine, the hose-cart, the fire department in their red shirts, and, I should think, half the village.  We climbed over the stone wall into Mrs. Liscom’s oat-field; it was hard work for Mrs. Ketchum, but Mrs. Jones and I pushed and Adeline pulled, and then we ran along close to the wall toward the house.  We certainly began to smell smoke, though we still could not see any fire.  The firemen were racing in and out of the house, bringing out the furniture, as were some of the village boys, and the engine was playing upon the south end, where the kitchen is.

Mrs. Peter Jones, who is very small and alert, said suddenly that it looked to her as if the smoke were coming out of the kitchen chimney, but Mrs. Ketchum said of course it was on fire inside in the woodwork.  “Oh, only to think of Mrs. Liscom’s nice house being all burned up, and what a dreadful reception for those boarders!” she groaned out.

I never saw such a hubbub, and apparently over nothing at all, as there was.  There was a steady yell of fire from a crowd of boys who seemed to enjoy it; the water was swishing, the firemen’s arms were pumping in unison, and everybody generally running in aimless circles like a swarm of ants.  Then we saw the boarders coming out.  “Oh, the house must be all in a light blaze inside!” groaned Mrs. Ketchum.

There were five of the boarders.  The mother, a large, fair woman with a long, massive face, her reddish hair crinkling and curling around it in a sort of ivy-tendril fashion, came first.  Her two daughters, in blue gowns, with pretty, agitated faces, followed; then the young son, fairly teetering with excitement; then the grandmother, a little, tremulous old lady in an auburn wig.

The woman at the head carried a bucket, and what should she do but form her family into a line toward the well at the north side of the house where we were!

Of course, the family did not nearly reach to the well, and she beckoned to us imperatively.  “Come immediately!” said she; “if the men of this village have no head in an emergency like this, let the women arise!  Come immediately.”

So Mrs. Peter Jones, Mrs. Ketchum, Adeline, and I stepped into the line, and the mother boarder filled the bucket at the well, and we passed it back from hand to hand, and the boy at the end flung it into Mrs. Liscom’s front entry all over her nice carpet.

Then suddenly we saw Caroline Liscom appear.  She snatched the bucket out of the hands of the boy boarder and gave it a toss into the lilac-bush beside the door; then she stood there, looking as I had never seen her look before.  Caroline Liscom has always had the reputation of being a woman of a strong character; she is manifestly the head of her family.  It is always, “Mrs. Liscom’s house,” and “Mrs. Liscom’s property,” instead of Mr. Liscom’s.