Many times that day she crept back and forth between the bin and the apple-box. When her head swam and her trembling knees gave way beneath her, she would stagger to the bin and fall upon the blankets. But no sleep came, and no rest; and after a time her strength so far forsook her that she could no longer mount upon the box. Then she lay still and gazed at the strip of light above the door until it seemed a streak of fire scorching her eyeballs.
And all the time she was listening, listening, for the sound of a footstep or a voice.
Thus the night found her, and again added its horror of darkness and rats. The fever of hunger and thirst was upon her. Her tongue and lips were swollen, and a devouring flame burned in her vitals. Her senses were no longer normal, and she heard sounds and saw objects that had no existence in reality.
All night long she watched the dark corner where the rat dwelt, and her distorted fancy magnified him into a monster of the jungle; in the cunning of semi-delirium she made plans to frighten him and keep him at bay; and finally, in the dark hour before dawn, she crept stealthily from the bin, whispering through her swelled lips:
"Fire! Fire will keep him away!"
She clutched an armful of straw, and crawled on hands and knees across the earthen floor to the sheet-iron stove. Keeping keen watch of the dread corner, she thrust the straw into the stove and groped for the matches on its hearth. A scratch, a flash, a tiny flame, then a roar!
She dragged herself to the bin and brought more straw, and more, until the thin sheet iron of the stove and the rickety pipe clear to the roof were red and roaring. The already hot and vitiated atmosphere of the cellar was now raised to an unbearable temperature, and soon she succumbed to it, falling upon the ground, face downward, in a mad effort to get away.
No longer fed, the straw fire languished and went out; but its mischief was done. The dry thatch of the roof had caught from the red-hot pipe and was blazing up, slowly at first, but ever surely. Soon the cinders began to fall into the cellar, and one struck her bare neck as she lay. She cried out with the pain, and struggled a little farther away; but the brands fell faster as the aperture around the pipe broadened, and her doom would have been certain had there not been another restless heart and a pair of sleepless eyes on the old farm.
The hired men were awakened by the excited voice of Abraham Spencer shouting:
"Up, boys, up! Bring water! potato cellar's a-fire!"
He was away, with two great pails of water in his hands, before the men were fairly awake. When they followed him they found him on the roof of the cellar. He had succeeded in extinguishing the fire, and as they approached, he suddenly dropped his pails and, falling upon his knees, crept close to the charred edge of the chasm in the roof. Leaning far over, he shaded his eyes and peered keenly into the steaming depths below. A faint moan had reached him, and now, as he listened, another came quivering up to him.
"My God!" he cried, springing up. "She's down there, boys! Sairy! Run for shovels! Oh, run, run!"
He himself ran like a madman, but only a little way. Then he turned and ran as madly back to the cellar, where he attacked the fallen gravel with his hands, and beat and tore at the door until the heavy boards, all stained with his own blood, were rended from their fastenings, and he had leaped into the cellar and caught up the prostrate figure he found there.
It was hours afterward that Mrs. Spencer aroused from the stupor that was upon her and began to comprehend again the realities of life. She was in her own clean, soft bed, and the cool breeze of evening was fluttering the hop vines at the window. She felt pain when she attempted to move, and there were bandages on her hands, her head, and her neck; but the pain was not acute, and the soothing effect of an opiate still lingered with her. Somewhere in the outer distance she heard the faint, familiar tinkle of a cow bell, and—yes, the subdued rattle of stove-lids in the kitchen. She lifted her head from the pillow to listen, and found her husband sitting silent close beside her.
"What is it, Sairy? What do you want?" he asked; and she felt the strange tenderness that vibrated in his rough voice.
"Who's in the kitchen, Abra'm? Is it—Mis' Rhynearson?"
"No, Sairy, it ain't. Mis' Rhynearson went home double quick when she found there wasn't anybody here to wait on her. You knowed her better than I did, Sairy.
