CHAPTER XXXV
It was late afternoon. All day the men who took orders from Helen Foraker had held the fire to the limits set down by the great blast. It burned briskly, hotly, but it was within their grasp and could not get away. The wind blew steadily and there was still danger in letting up until above the shouts and the snap of burning wood, the moan of trees that had been saved, came a heavy shaking boom of thunder. Through the thick smoke scattering rain drops fell, sending up little puffs of dust in the fire line. The wind dropped, the thin shower abated, stopped, and then with a fresh gust it came in a hissing, drenching torrent with lightning gashing the murk and thunder ripping open new clouds heavy with moisture. In ten minutes the ruts of the road ran water.
Drenched, her face streaked with grime, eyes smarting, weak from effort and strain, the girl entered her kitchen. Aunty May met her in the doorway.
"You're a sight!" she cried. "But this rain'll fix it, an' I'm glad you're here!" Helen took off her hat wearily and made no response. "He's in there yet," gesturing toward the front room.
"He?—Who?"
"That old devil!" eyes snapping. "I heard what he had to say this mornin'. He's stayed here all day. All durin' the fire he had Injun kids from th' mill running
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