He fell sound asleep again. Obedient to the slumbrous mandate,
Lad turned and pattered mournfully away. But, he was not content
to return to his own nap, with that terror-cry of Lady's echoing
in his ears. And he made a second attempt to get out.

At each side of the piano, in the music room, was a long French
window. Often, by day, Lad used to pass in or out of these
door-like windows. He knew that they, as well as the doors, were
a recognized means of exit. Now, with eagerly scratching paw, he
pushed at the nearest of them.

The house was but carelessly locked at night. For Lad's presence
downstairs was a better burglar-preventive than the best bolts
ever forged. Tired and drowsy, the Master, this night, had
neglected to bar the French windows.

The window gave, at Lad's vehement scratch; and swung outward on
its hinges. A second later, the big dog was running at top speed
toward the tool-house.

Now, the ways of the most insignificant brushfire are beyond the
exact wisdom of man. Especially in droughty weather. When they
knocked off work for the day, the two laborers had gone back to
the blaze beyond the tool-house and conscientiously had scattered
and stamped on its last visible remnants. The Master, too, coming
home from his evening walk, had glanced toward the back garden
and had seen no telltale spark to hint at life in the trampled
fire.