The woolen mill was in a pretty little hollow, a nest whose walls were spreading elm-trees.  The mill was a relic of the old industries of the place and represented a vain effort to make Seamont a “manufacturing center.”

“Then the fire is down in the hollow,” thought Will.  He saw somebody approaching who he thought might be a customer, but he quickly decided the question whether he owed a greater duty to one person or to many—­the public—­by turning the key in the lock of the door.  Then he hurried away.  As he rushed to the house of the “Cataract,” he stopped at the door of Dr. Tilton’s home.

“There,” he said to Biddy Flannigan, who answered, “tell the doctor there’s a tremendous alarm in town, and I thought he might want me to go, as he is an owner, and here is the key.”

“What?” said Biddy.

“Woolen mill’s afire, tell him.”

“Woolen Mill Sophia!  Who is she?” wondered Biddy, and she went to report to the doctor.

“Faith, sir, yer clerk says there is a tremenjus ’larm in town and it’s about Woolen Mill Sophia, and here is the key, sir.”

“Woolen-mill what?” asked the doctor.  “I am an owner up there.”

“Indade!  It must be that Sophia works up there.”

“Sophia?” the doctor asked, and then stared at her and exclaimed, “It is ‘woolen mill’s afire!’ My!  Where are my boots?  Quick!  Bertha, bring down my boots, please.”

This last request was shouted up stairs to his niece, Bertha Barry, who was making a brief visit at the doctor’s.  Bertha quickly appeared, boots in hand, her blue eyes looking bright and fresh as the spring violets just gathered from the fields.

“Bertha, it’s the old mill that is afire.  Will Somers has left the key of the store here and gone to the fire.  I can forgive him this morning, though I did think his duties as a fireman began to interfere with his duties as an apothecary.  Let me see!  I’m all ready, I believe—­guess I must go up to the fire.  Tell your aunt I have gone to the fire and I’ll be back—­when I arrive.”

Off went the doctor.  Bertha delivered the message to her aunt and went down stairs.  Then she looked out of the window and watched the people on their way to the fire.

“Guess I’ll go to the fire, too,” said Bertha, “if aunt is willing.”

“Och,” said Biddy, as she watched the departing Bertha, “we’ll all be fur goin’ up to see Sophia.  The saints defind us!”

The fire had started in the waste room of the old mill.  Somebody had once insisted on isolating this quarter as much as possible, and brick partitions had been put up that happily interfered with the spread of the fire and allowed all the operatives a chance to escape.  The fire finally reached an elevator.  It then darted with startling rapidity to the top of the building, shooting up like an arrow sent by a destructive hand below.  The flames were now spreading every-where in the highest story.  People gathered from the town, and the engines soon were working.