OH, the dear, precious little brown house!

How they worked—every man, woman, and child on the place—to save it! There was no time for the fire-department down in the village to get there, although the private alarm from “The Oaks” was sounded. What was to be done, must be done quickly; and everybody took hold and did the thing that seemed nearest and best.

Mrs. Higby passed pails of water as rapidly as if her hands and feet were young; preferring the old-fashioned ways of putting out a fire to the long lines of hose that the stable-men soon had in and around the little brown house. Candace, who immediately found that when she could work for her “bressed folks” she wasn’t lonely, waddled in and out, carrying everything she could lay her hands on, out to the grass in safety, despite the fact that she was invited several times by the workers who didn’t know her, to “get out of the way.”

“Git out ob de way, you’d tell me, pore w’ite trash, you!” Candace would mutter to herself at such times, smothering her wrath as best she could till she was sure the little brown house was safe; then she would teach these servants, one and all, that she was “a relict,” and had lived with Mr. King’s folks long before they were born. “Tink dey kin teach me,” fumed Candace under her turban, waddling on fiercely.

And after the last vestige of the dreadful flame was out, and the smoke cleared away, it was found that nothing was burned that would bring sorrow to one of the “Five Little Peppers.”

Mamsie’s rocking-chair, in which she used to sit in the old days, sewing the coats and sacks to keep the wolf from the door, was carried out, the little old cushion blazing at one end; but quick hands had beaten out the fire, so this was saved. And though the fire had run along the trail of shavings and paper dropped from Johnny’s armful, as he carried it in from the “Provision Room,” strange to say, beyond making dreadful black marks on the old kitchen floor to show its progress, and the scorching of the cupboard door, no damage was done. And then everybody drew a long breath, and stopped working, to gaze into each other’s faces; for the little brown house was safe!

And just then up clattered the village fire-department, and right back of them appeared Alexia, who, coming out of the post-office to drive to “The Oaks,” when told the news, made her pony run at top speed, so that she reached the scene almost at the same moment.

Patsy, who always ran to Mrs. Dodge’s aid, saw her first, and tore across the lawn, to catch the reins as she flung them to him.

“Is it the little brown house?” gasped Alexia, not daring to look in that direction, as she jumped out.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Patsy.

“Is it gone? all gone?” she screamed. Then she sat right down on the bank, and burst into tears.

“No, ma’am!” cried Patsy; “sure it’s not.”

“Not out? Oh, dear, dear, dear!” cried Alexia, waving back and forth in distress; “it will kill them all. We might as well all be dead as to have the little brown house burnt up. Oh, dear—dear—dear!”

“It’s there!” cried Patsy, extending all the fingers of one hand to point at it; “a-standing just as nice and”—

Alexia sprang to her feet, and seized his arm. “Patsy!” she cried, “do you mean to tell me that if I turn around I shall see the little brown house the same as ever?”

“Yis’m,” said Patsy; “if you opens your eyes you will.”

Mrs. Dodge whirled around and took one look; then she sped on light feet over the terraces and across the lawn.

“She rins like a birud would fly,” said Patsy, watching her; “dishdainin’ the ground like”—then he hopped into her cart, and drove it around to the stables. “If ye could turn yere hose onto that boy as did it, it ud be a blessing,” he said to the firemen.

“Don’t say a word,” said Mrs. Higby, flushed and anxious, “Johnny’s badly burned; and you must run for Dr. Porter, Patsy.”

“Burned is he?” cried Patsy, and his face fell; for Johnny was a great favorite of his, despite his words; and he rushed off in Mrs. Dodge’s pony-cart.

Alexia, after first satisfying herself by investigation that the little brown house was really safe, and that the precious things huddled out on the grass were not all burnt up, rushed off to find some one who could tell her all about it. The first person she ran against was Candace.

“Oh, my goodness me!” cried Alexia gustily; “how did you get here, Candace?”

“It’s a mercy I did come,” said Candace, not stopping to answer the question; “for I don’ know wot dey’d done widout me. Wy, I brung out mos’ o’ dem tings,” sweeping her black arm over toward the household treasures on the lawn. “I brung de little cheer, an’ de”—

“Yes, yes,” said Alexia. “Well, how did it ever happen?”

“An’ I brung de tea-kettle an’ de plates an’”—

“Yes, well, never mind those now!” exclaimed Alexia impatiently; “do tell me, how did it ever happen?”

“Chile,” said Candace, “nebber min’ how it done happen—de ting now is, who had sense enough to ’tend to gettin’ out de tings. Wot dey’d done ef I hadn’t a-come I d’no eber in all dis worl’”—

“Hannah!” cried Mrs. Dodge in despair to the maid hurrying by, “do you know? Tell me, how came the little brown house to be on fire?”

“Johnny Fargo went in and played making a fire,” said Hannah.

“Johnny Fargo! Oh, the little scamp!” cried Alexia; “now that boy ought to have a good drubbing,” she cried, quite beside herself.

“There can’t anybody give it to him,” said Hannah, hurrying on, “because he’s burnt, and the doctor’s coming.”

“Oh, the pore leetle lamb!” exclaimed Candace, raising her black hands; “now I must nuss him. He was so good to bring up my passels, an’ to wait on me in—well, well, I d’no know wot dey’d have done ef I hadn’t ’a’ come;” and she waddled off, Mrs. Dodge closely following, remorsefully determining to do everything in the world now for Johnny instead of the drubbing.

And so it turned out that the two letters in her pocket she had just taken out of the post-office when she heard of the fire, remained there forgotten until the doctor had dressed Johnny’s burns and gone, and she had Mrs. Fargo on the sofa in Polly’s room, where they had fled for refuge.

“There, now, you ought not to cry, you know, Mrs. Fargo,” she said. “Oh, dear me! what would Polly Pepper say to you if she were here? I’m good for nothing; but you really ought not.”

“Oh, I cannot help it!” cried Mrs. Fargo, deep in her handkerchief. “My poor little boy! and then to think of that precious house—why, if he’d set this one on fire, it wouldn’t have been one-half as bad.”

“Well, it didn’t burn up,” cried Alexia, twitching her sleeve, “so what’s the use of crying now. Oh, dear me—why, here are the letters!” and she tore them out of her pocket. “One for you, and one for me—from Polly!” and in a minute she was deep in hers.

Mrs. Fargo, just commencing to read the heading of her own letter, heard a funny little sound; and glancing up, saw Alexia making every effort to speak, her face working dreadfully. The letter had fallen from her hands to the floor.

“Oh! what is it?” cried poor Mrs. Fargo, feeling that this day must be bewitched, and dreading she knew not what; and she jumped up, too frightened now to cry, and ran to Polly’s toilet-table for salts.

“Read—read—your letter!” gasped Alexia.

“Oh, I can’t, if it’s bad news!” cried Mrs. Fargo, shrinking and trembling. “Where are they—oh, here!” She brought the bottle of salts, and held it to Alexia’s nose.

“Phronsie Pepper is married!” cried Alexia, twitching away her head.

“Phronsie Pepper is married?” repeated Mrs. Fargo blankly.

“The very day that Polly wrote,” declared Alexia tragically; then she made a dive for her letter on the floor.

“Read it, Alexia,” begged Mrs. Fargo, “for I can’t;” and she sank down on the sofa, and wound her arms around Mrs. Dodge.

“And I’m sure I want to hold on to somebody too,” declared Alexia. “Oh, dear me, Mrs. Fargo, to think you and I won’t ever see Phronsie married! Oh, dear, dear!” and the tears of vexation sprang to her eyes. “And it will almost kill Polly not to have the wedding here—and all the hosts and hosts of friends Phronsie Pepper has, and—what shall we do?”

“We can’t do anything,” breathed Mrs. Fargo; “it’s already done—do read it all,” she added faintly.

So Alexia dashed ahead,—

“‘Hotel Costanzi, Rome, July, 18—.

“‘Dear Alexia,—

“‘You are to be very glad to begin with, at the piece of news I shall tell you right away. And that is, that Phronsie was married this morning to Roslyn May.’—

“Glad! Indeed I’m not!” cried Alexia; “to go and steal such a march on you and me and all her piles of friends, Mrs. Fargo—and such a wedding as we’d have given her.”

“The precious dear,” murmured Mrs. Fargo. “Go on, Alexia.”

Alexia sniffed off two or three disappointed tears, and rushed on,—

“‘It was just this way. You see, Roslyn, poor boy, got it into his head that Grandpapa would separate them again, though of course that was the fever, and because he had suffered so much since he had last seen Phronsie; and although he got better, and it seemed as if he were coming up finely, he brooded so over that idea that Papa-Doctor got quite in despair. And then Father King’—

“Can’t you see Polly’s face when she is going to tell something splendid about Mr. King,” cried Alexia, glancing down the page. “Oh, dear me!—where was I,” going back again, “oh,—‘and then Father King was just royal! He told Phronsie that all he cared for was to make her happy, and that nothing would make him so happy as to have the marriage take place here; and they were just going to tell Roslyn, when Papa-Doctor sent them word that Roslyn was worse. And then those were just dreadful days; for the fever came back, and Phronsie smiled when we looked troubled at her; but she was just like a shadow—so thin and so white. O Alexia, I can’t bear to think of those days! Charlotte Chatterton came from Germany, and she was such a comfort; but we all just clung to each other in despair. Only Phronsie kept saying she knew Roslyn would get well.’

“This is very dreadful,” sniffed Alexia, wiping away the tears furtively. At last she just let them rain down. “I’m a miserable, selfish little pig,” she said, “not to be glad to have her married there.”

“O poor Phronsie!” sighed Mrs. Fargo, “and poor Polly, and all.”

“‘And—and’” went on Alexia recovering her place in her letter, “‘and one day when everything seemed the blackest, and as if we couldn’t bear it another minute longer, Roslyn came up again. And then Grandpapa told him how everything was to be as he wished. Well, from that moment, Alexia, the world was bright again, and the sun shone, and we all were as glad as glad could be: and Roslyn just adores Grandpapa. You can’t think how devoted they are to each other. And so everything was quickly arranged—for who do you think should drop down suddenly but Roslyn’s father, General May! Now, wasn’t that perfectly lovely! I always suspect that Father King sent for him, though he doesn’t say so.’

“Just think how all those people had Phronsie to themselves,” mourned Alexia, who, now that Roslyn was mending, returned to her own grievances. “And Grace Tupper too—she was at that wedding; and Pickering and you and I, Mrs. Fargo, left out in the cold.”

“I know it,” sighed Mrs. Fargo; “well, go on, Alexia.”

“Oh, dear me! well, where was I? Oh—‘and so this morning Phronsie and Roslyn were married. Roslyn was very weak; but he was lifted out of his chair, and insisted on standing during a part of the ceremony. And Joel married them beautifully. And Grandpapa gave Phronsie away.’

“Oh dear, dear!” screamed Alexia, quite carried out of herself, “why couldn’t we have been there!

“‘And Roslyn’s just as beautiful and splendid, and he’s my brother now,’” Polly’s letter went on; “‘and I’m so happy, Alexia, about it, you can’t think. And Phronsie wore one of her white muslin dresses, and carried the white prayer-book that Roslyn gave her; and she was married with his mother’s ring he had worn all these years. And Roslyn looked like one of the pictures of the young gods, he was so handsome; and Phronsie—well, she was our Phronsie! Oh! and Roslyn’s work, begun in his studio, is considered most remarkable. He is surely, so we are told on all sides, to be one of the foremost sculptors of the age. And you can’t think how proud Grandpapa is of him!’

“‘And now, you poor dear! I know how badly you feel not to have Phronsie married at home.’”

Alexia gave a deep groan, as if words were beyond her.

“‘And that you couldn’t even see her married. Well, now, Alexia, Phronsie wants me to tell you a piece of news, a secret just yet, only for you and Pickering and dear Mrs. Fargo to know. Roslyn and she are to live in the little brown house; and he is to build a studio in the meadow back of it, and not go to Rome only once in a while, when they want to travel. Did you ever hear of anything so splendid!’”

Alexia squealed in delight; then her sallow cheek turned quite white. “Mrs. Fargo,” and she clutched that lady’s arm, “suppose, only suppose for an instant, that it had burned down this morning!

“‘And we are to give her and Roslyn the most beautiful marriage reception. Oh, you can’t think how beautiful it will all be at “The Oaks” when they come home’—

“Oh!” squealed Alexia, again seizing Mrs. Fargo by the arm; “now, you and I will have our good time, won’t we, for being cheated out of all the rest? It’s too splendid for anything! Mrs. Fargo, I never thought of the welcome-home party we could give them! Why, that will be almost as good as having Phronsie married here;” and she jumped off the sofa, and began to pirouette around the room. “But how can we ever plan it with Polly away?” and she came to a sudden stop, her brow wrinkling in perplexity.

“You better finish your letter,” advised Mrs. Fargo. “Polly probably has something to say on that point. Then you can jump, Alexia, all you want to.”

So Alexia flew back to her letter. “Where was I? Oh—at ‘“The Oaks” when they come home. We are coming first, Jasper and I, with the children and Grace, who has been the dearest little comfort in all this world. Joel and David, of course, must get back as soon as possible, so they are coming with us. Ben will stay with Mamsie and Dr. Fisher, and Grandpapa and Phronsie and Roslyn, a few weeks longer; and then they will all come home together, and bring Charlotte Chatterton with them.’

“Oh, goody, goody!” exclaimed Alexia, beating her palms together in joy. “And I’ll venture to say that then you’ll see I’m right, my dear Mrs. Fargo, about Charlotte Chatterton and Ben.”

“Maybe so,” said Mrs. Fargo wisely. “Well, is that all?”

“Um—um—let me see,” said Alexia, whirling the letter again; “yes, except—‘I have written a letter with all these details to dear Mrs. Fargo—and I know you go to see dear Grandma Bascom every day, Alexia; and do tell her all this that I have told you, and that, please God, we shall be home, the first party of us, very soon now. And then, dear, won’t you and I plan for Phronsie’s home-coming!’

“Won’t we, though!” cried Alexia with shining eyes. “Well,” drawing a long breath, “I must hurry off and tell Grandma Bascom all the news; and then, says I, I must let that blessed baby know all about it.”