“Well, what do you want me to do to-day, Min? Speak up quick.” Mr. Harlow, in his holiday morning costume, consisting of a pair of old and baggy trousers, an outing shirt and an utterly incongruous coat, with bulging pockets, stood by the piazza steps, a disreputable grey felt hat held in one hand.

“It’s nearly ten o’clock, and I must go down-town and get some nails before the stores close for the day. I had expected to send one of the boys, but Betty tells me that Herbert has gone to play in the golf tournament, and Jack is off to the ball game. If there’s anything round the house you want mended, now’s your time to tell me.”

“We want a screw for the wringer—or perhaps it’s a nut,” said Mrs. Harlow, hazily, her eyes fixed on her husband. “The top is off the piano-stool again, and there is the arm of the red chair,—you’ll find it in the closet under the stairs,—and one of the faucets in the kitchen sink will keep running. Oh, yes, and there’s a caster broken off the refrigerator, too; we have to prop it up with[138] a block of wood, but it’s so crooked that the water from it goes all over the cellar floor. Please don’t forget it, will you? But, David, you are not going down to the village looking like that? It’s really disgraceful! If any one should see you! It won’t take you a minute to go up-stairs and change your coat and put on another necktie.”

“What’s the matter with the clothes I have on?” Mr. Harlow looked down at himself with satisfaction. “Just the things to work in, good and easy. I’ll go on now, and you can think what else you want done, and tell me when I come back.” He stopped to take the letters from the grey-clad postman, who had just come up with the one mail of a holiday. “Here’s one for me from Tom. I’ll read it as I go along. Good-bye!”

Mr. Harlow, who had put on his hat, took it off in courtesy to his wife, as he looked back and smiled a last affectionate farewell to her from the other side of the gate. Her eyes watched his large form, with its firm stride, until it disappeared round the corner. She loved his little politenesses of manner to her.

The wind touched the purple clusters of wistaria above her head, and shook out a sweet perfume from them. The grass around the house was close cut and velvety, but[139] next door the lawn-mower was click-clicking busily, and the sky was as blue as a summer sky.

Mrs. Harlow, slender and trim in a freshly washed lilac cambric gown that matched the wistaria, sat on the piazza opening her letters with the true holiday feeling of the suburbanite.

Nothing whatever of interest presented itself for her amusement, but the mere fact that her husband was at home for the day seemed to breathe a pleasant sense of confusion and excitement that disqualified her for any connected occupation, in spite of the big pile of sewing up-stairs.

“Any letters, mother?”

Betty, the daughter of the house, who had come out in a white shirt-waist and a straw hat decked with last year’s blue corn-flowers, perched herself on the end of the piazza. “I’m going to the train to meet Sylvia, but it isn’t time yet. I’m so glad she’ll be here! I haven’t seen her for weeks.”

“There’s a letter from your Aunt Kitty,” said the mother. “She says your Uncle Tom is going to retire from business. They want to take Lutie abroad for change of air. She must be nearly eight years old now. She’s been so well lately they’re afraid of a reaction. I can’t quite make out where they’re going[140] first; it looks like Himalaya. Oh, I see! It’s Edinburgh.”

“It might as well be Himalaya. Lutie’s never had anything but changes of air since she was born,” said Betty, crossly. “How some people do travel! They seem to have money for everything, while we—well, things can’t go on like this much longer! I’m going to work and earn something just as soon as I can now. And Jack says he wants to leave school and go in an office like Herbert. It’s too bad to leave so much on father. Don’t you think he has had more on his mind lately?”

“I’m afraid he has,” said Mrs. Harlow, with a sigh. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, something so horrid happened yesterday! I meant to keep it to myself, but I can’t.” Betty’s cheeks were red, her eyes were flashing. “I was at Mrs. Kennedy’s, with those books, and she asked if there was anything the matter with father, he had been looking so worn lately. She thought outsiders always noticed those things more quickly than the family.”

“The idea!” said Mrs. Harlow, indignantly.

“Then when I was in the hall I heard them talking; I couldn’t help it. They said—she and Mrs. Bradley—what a pity it was when a[141] man didn’t get on well in business, and Mrs. Tower said she was always so sorry for the wife of an unsuccessful man; it must be so dreadful, if you had any ambition, to see your husband a failure. She said she never could really respect a man who showed himself deficient. I was so angry I could hardly walk home. I went up-stairs and cried. I wanted to burst right in and tell them how nobly father had behaved when that old Johnson absconded, and how he was trying to pay up all the back debts. But I knew it wasn’t any use——”

“Deficient!” Mrs. Harlow’s eyes glittered. “Your father’s brain—well, your father’s brain is far beyond most people’s. How he can make all those calculations the way he does——” She paused. Her own education dated back of the modern era. She was sound on the arithmetic of her butcher’s and grocer’s books, but beyond that all figures looked to her much like a drop of water seen through a microscope.

“There’s the whistle!” said Betty, suddenly jumping up and making for the train to meet her best friend.

The subject of this conversation had meanwhile been wending his way to the town. He perhaps had looked forward to a time of pecuniary ease and leisure, when, instead of[142] tinkering round the house, he might play golf. But no one, not even his wife, quite understood what a holiday meant to Mr. Harlow.

To escape for a solid block of sunlit secular hours out of the grimy, artificially lighted, badly ventilated office, with its white, tired-looking clerks, and its association of intricate, harassing toil—to escape from this to the peacefulness of green grass, and the click of the lawn-mower, and the flickering of shade from the new leaves of the elms that arched the street, and the sweet voices of little children calling to one another, was to go back into a little corner of the emerald fields of boyhood.

Mr. Harlow was not in the least old; he was indeed barely middle-aged; yet there were moments when he knew that he was not so young as he had been. On the spring morning of a holiday the thought, even if it came, was robbed of its shadow.

His face had the kind smile that children always trusted, as he stopped to pick up a tiny, curly-haired girl who had fallen in his way. The action showed him the letter, which he had forgotten, still in his hand.

He opened and read it as he walked, stopped short and read it again with knitted brows. Then he walked on and on, as one deep in thought, until he came to the other[143] side of the village. He did not go near the stores, but strolled instead towards a large, unoccupied house that stood surrounded by lawns and trees, well apart from its neighbours. There was a clear view of the hills from the porch. Mr. Harlow walked round the house and through the garden, and sat on the porch steps, still deep in thought.

“I did not know what had become of you,” said his wife, running down the walk to meet him as he once more came in through the gate. “Why, it’s after twelve o’clock! I was afraid something had happened to you! I suppose you’ve been talking all this time to somebody.” She did not give him an opportunity to answer, but drew him up beside her to one of the piazza chairs. “I know you won’t have time to mend all those things I asked you to, without taking up all your afternoon, and I don’t want you to do that. But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to fix the leg of the refrigerator.”

“It would be better to buy a new one, wouldn’t it?” asked Mr. Harlow, impartially.

“‘Better to buy a new one!’ I only wish I could. How queer you act, David! Aren’t you going to put the netting on the screens now? I think you’ll have time before dinner; it’s to be at one o’clock to-day.”

“I can’t do the screens now, Min. The[144] store was shut when I went to buy the nails. Who’s that talking to Betty?”

“It’s Sylvia; she has come out for a couple of days. And, O David, a telegram came for Betty while you were gone, from Harry Leroy. He’ll be on to-night, and he’s not going back to Indiana any more. He has a position here with his cousin.”

“Hum!” Mr. Harlow looked doubtfully considerate. “How old is Betty? Fifteen?”

“She will be nineteen in September.”

“Oh, well, she’s nothing but a child yet,” said Mr. Harlow, in a tone that defied denial.

“Nothing but a child,” assented his wife, cheerfully.

There was a pause. “How old were you when we were married, Min?”

“Twenty. It was entirely too young.”

“I remember,” Mr. Harlow’s voice was reflective, “my mother told me she was married at seventeen and my grandmother was married at fifteen; and I had an aunt who——”

“If you remember any more I’ll go in the house!” said his wife, indignantly. “What is the matter with you, David? Where have you been this morning?”

“Well, Min, I’ve something to tell you. I——” he stopped, his voice altered and his[145] eyes became suddenly alert. “Hello! What’s that over there?”

“Smoke, isn’t it?” she answered, her gaze following his towards the horizon. “It seems to me I can smell it.”

“Looks like a fire, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but I don’t hear any fire-bells.”

Mr. Harlow rose. “Two-thirds of our beloved volunteer fire department are off on a picnic or a procession or something to-day. I’m going over to that smoke on the old bicycle, and find out what’s the matter.”

“You’d a great deal better stay at home!” his wife called after him, but he was gone.

She still sat on the piazza. A few moments later a rider sped past, and then another. Then the fire-bells began to ring at last—clang! clang! clang, clang, clang!

The fire was on the outskirts of the village, in a different direction from that which Mr. Harlow had taken in the morning. The smoke rose a blacker and blacker column in the distance, interspersed with sudden bursts of flame. The crackling sound of burning wood, the occasional sound of something falling, and hoarse voices calling to one another were borne faintly yet unmistakably upon the air.

“I’m going to the fire!” It was Betty, hat in hand, who had rushed down-stairs[146] breathless. “Come on, Syl! Oh, isn’t it exciting! Just look at that blaze! There go our boys!”

The street was filled with an outpouring of bicycles with their riders, and with boys and men coming in from the various games, Herbert in one set, Jack in another. The village was rapidly becoming deserted. Mrs. Harlow began to wish she might go, too, but she guaged the distance and forbore.

The fire had started in some outhouses, and helped by a sudden breeze, had leaped merrily over intervening space towards a large barn that stretched out red and imposing over one end of the field. Beyond that was a dwelling-house. The barn, which was new, while piled at one end with fodder, was as yet untenanted by any animals, as Mr. Harlow thankfully discovered on reaching the place.

The stir in the village had not extended to these outlying fields, which were all deserted, as became a holiday. A woman stood in the doorway of the house, watching the blaze. One man was running off, shouting for help, and another was carrying two buckets of water towards the barn.

He came up to Mr. Harlow and put the buckets on the ground.

“There ain’t any use in carryin’ water,” he[147] said, “not a mite o’ use, only it seemed sort o’ natural to do it. Just look at those flames!”

“The engine ought to hurry up if it’s going to do any good,” said Mr. Harlow.

“Can’t do a particle of good if it does come. There ain’t any water here—that is, not more than a teacupful; well and cistern’s dry as a bone.”

“The house will not catch,” said Mr. Harlow; “the wind is the other way. You are sure there was no one in the barn?”

“Sure,” said the man.

They were gazing at the flames, which enveloped one end of the structure. Another moment, and there was a deafening crash through the roar of the fire; half of the barn had fallen in, and revealed beyond, high up on one of the big beams of the rafters, the white faces and crouching forms of six little children, huddled close together. Playing in the loft, they had climbed higher and higher back, to get out of reach of the flames.

A cry of horror broke from the two onlookers. The next instant the man, wildly shrieking for help, followed Mr. Harlow, who sped towards the barn.

The flames that had left one part of the building still untouched were rapidly curling round it, lighting up the faces of the children.[148] The roof sloped with a sharp pitch, but there were a couple of projecting ledges below it.

Mr. Harlow had been an athlete in his day. In spite of his large, heavily built frame, he was still quick of motion, sure of foot, keen of eye. He took off his coat and threw it on the ground, and then in some way he was climbing up the barn.

He disappeared, then reappeared again inside. Swinging himself up on a blackened rafter, he held with one hand to a support above, and with the other lifted one half-insensible child from her perch, and swung her over into the waiting grasp of a fireman below, for the engine had come up, and the field was black with the whole swarming village population, gathering larger and larger forces each minute.

Six times did Mr. Harlow’s strong arm plunge forward and encircle a helpless, drooping little form in the sight of the field of breathless spectators.

As the last one was safely handed over, a sharp breath of relief came from the crowd. Then there was a leaping flame, and a cloud of smoke surged up and hid him from view.

“The doctor says he’ll be all right soon. Really, mother, we’re not keeping anything from you.”

[149]

Betty, with high-keyed voice, flaming cheeks and wild eyes, was under the impression that she was pacifically calm of demeanour. She had been taken home in a friend’s buggy.

“There’s not the least cause for worry. He’s only suffocated a little, you know, from the smoke, and of course his hands are burned a little, and his feet; and he’s not quite conscious yet, but he’s all right. I was to tell you that particularly, but you’re always so nervous! They’ll have him home here soon. Herbert’s with him, and Syl is bringing his coat. And—O mother!”

Betty fell into Mrs. Harlow’s arms, and they wept together.

“It was the most glorious thing you ever saw!” said the daughter, brokenly. “Syl and I reached the field just after Herbert and Jack, and we heard some one saying, ‘Yes, six children in there, but there’s a man trying to get them out.’

“And then we saw a figure in the barn, through the smoke, and Herbert cried, ‘It’s father! it’s father!’ and ran forward, and Jack and I just screamed, ‘It’s father! Oh, it’s father!’ And oh, you ought to have heard everybody, mother,—I’ll never forget it,—and Jack cheered, but I could only cry, ‘It’s father!’ And then there was a sort of[150] a crash, and then lots of people came up and told us he’d be all right soon, and Mr. Nevin put me in his buggy and brought me home. But if you’d seen how surprised everybody was to find it was father! What’s the matter with you, mother?”

“Oh, nothing,” said the mother. She had drawn her form from her daughter’s embrace and was standing erect. “It doesn’t surprise me in the least. I always knew how brave your father was. Why, when we were engaged he saved a man from—O Betty, Betty, here they come!”

It was a cavalcade led by Jack, with outriders on bicycles and followers on foot, surrounding an ancient barouche, on one seat of which Mr. Harlow was solicitously propped up by his son Herbert, his white face, grotesque with scorched hair, smiling quizzical encouragement at his wife.

“I’m all right,” he said, in response to her faltering, “O David!” “Such nonsense! I don’t know what all this fuss is about.”

“We know, Mrs. Harlow,” said the doctor, as he helped his charge out of the carriage and up-stairs, still protesting, with bandages on his hands and feet. He professed himself as fit as a fighting cock to the wife who sat by his side and gazed at him, while Betty and Herbert received visitors and reporters below[151] with the condescension of those of the blood to the lesser nobility.

“Yes, it’s the third time.” Betty’s voice had become attuned to the recital as the afternoon wore on towards dusk. “Once he rescued a man from the rapids in the St. Lawrence River—my uncle said it was one of the most daring deeds he ever witnessed; and another time he stopped a runaway horse, and saved two women from being dashed against a stone wall. And another time, when he was quite a boy, he had a fight with two burglars in the dark, and forced them—— What is it Herbert wants, Syl? I’ll go up-stairs and see. Will you just take this jelly that Mrs. Scovel brought over, and put it where Jack can’t get at it?”

“Mother!” She opened the door of the ‘throne-room,’ where the invalid, propped, up among his pillows, with a napkin under his chin, had the air of an enormous infant as his wife fed him with beef tea.

“Mother, there’s another reporter down-stairs. Herbert says he wants one of father’s pictures. There’s the telegraph boy riding up—it’s the sixth message we’ve had. Jack, bring it to me here! I’ll open it. It says, ‘Just heard the news. Love and congratulations for our hero.’ It’s from Aunt Kitty. Herbert wired her at once.”

[152]

“It’s the most fool business I ever heard of,” said the man in the bed, helplessly. “If I’d done anything, I wouldn’t mind, but——”

“Yes, dear, don’t excite yourself,” said his wife, in soothing tone. “Betty——” She gave her daughter a warning glance.

“I hope we’re through with all this tommy rot,” said Mr. Harlow, as Betty’s footsteps retreated.

He did not hear her voice again going on fluently to a fresh batch of visitors: “Once he rescued a man on the St. Lawrence River from a stone wall—I mean the rapids, one of the most daring deeds——”

“Min!”

“Yes, David.”

“Get my coat. Who’s that at the door now?”

It was Herbert’s voice this time. “What year was father born in?”

“Great Scott!” moaned the invalid. “Go down and tell ’em you don’t know. Shut that door! Get my coat, Min, and in the inner left-hand side pocket—don’t hold it upside down; you’ll let all my keys fall out; there, I told you so—some of that change rolled under the bed—never mind, look for it later. The left-hand pocket, I said——” Twenty-one years of matrimony had not[153] availed to teach Mrs. Harlow the intricacy of her husband’s pockets. “Not that one; there, now you’ve hit it! Take that letter out.”

“Why, it’s the one you got from Tom this morning!”

“Yes; open it, and read for yourself. Tell me how it strikes you.”

As Mrs. Harlow read, the colour rose in her face. “Tom wishes to retire from active business—yes, that’s what Kitty’s letter said. I should think he’d have to, when—O David, he says if you’ll take his place in the firm—he has long been thinking of such an arrangement—David!”

“Ah, don’t take my hand, dear!” He winced instinctively, but his tone was very gentle. “Foolish woman, stop kissing those bandages.”

“O David, now your worries will all be over at last! The children had been planning how they could help you. I wonder what it will seem like to be able to buy anything new once more. And perhaps we could take the Morris house!”

“That’s just what I had been thinking of. I was over there prowling round the place this morning. I thought we’d go down and look at it again together after dinner. And I’m glad for your sake, Min, that I’m not such a[154] failure as it seemed, after all, dear. You won’t have to be ashamed of your husband. What’s that noise?”

There was the roll of drums and the sound of flying footsteps, mingled with Betty’s hysterical tones:

“O mother! O mother! Look out of the window! The procession is stopping outside!”

Like the Lady of Shalott, Mrs. Harlow made three paces through the room to look beyond her threshold. Before her dazed vision rose ranks and ranks of men, crowding the street before her doorway, with the flag in front.

Some one was waving the flag, and Herbert was speaking, and then there was a cheer, and another, and another, and yet another; but she was not standing by the window; her face was down by her husband’s.

“Oh,” she breathed, with a loving scorn in her choking voice, as she touched the bandaged hand that tried to seek hers, “I don’t need to have you climb up burning barns and rescue children, I don’t need to have you ‘successful,’ as they call it, to know who you are! If every one despised you, if you were so poor you had to—dig—wells, I’d still know you were the dearest, the bravest, the best, the most wonderful man in all the world! I’m just too proud of you to live!”