ever-present and so accustomed that David had to listen hard to hear it. But this strange red glow was new and disturbing, and now, wide awake, the boy sought the explanation of it and found it once his gaze had moved to the north window.
Above the tops of the distant trees beyond the plantation, the sky was like the mouth of a furnace, and against the unearthly glow the topmost branches of the taller trees stood sharply, like forms cut from black paper.
“Father!” called the boy.
Nathan Lindall was awake on the instant.
“You called, David?” he asked.
“Yes, father. The forest is afire!”
“Nay, ’tis not the forest,” answered Nathan Lindall when he had looked from the window. “The woods are too damp at this season, and I have never heard of the Indians firing them save in the fall. ’Tis some one’s house, lad, and I fear—” He did not finish, but turned instead to Obid Dawkin who had joined them. “What say you, Obid?” he questioned.
“I say as you, master,” replied Obid in his thin, rusty voice. “And ’tis the work of the heathens, I doubt not. But whose house
