CHAPTER V.Nero not the Last Violinist of his Kind.
Miss Carewe was at her desk, writing to Sister Cecilia, whom she most loved of all the world, when the bells startled her with their sudden clangor.

The quill dropped from her hand; she started to her feet, wide-eyed, not understanding; while the whole town, drowsing peacefully a moment ago, resounded immediately with a loud confusion.

She ran to the front door and looked out, her heart beating wildly.
The western sky was touched with a soft rose-color, which quickly became a warm glow, fluctuated, and, in the instant, shot up like the coming of a full Aurora.

Then through the broken foliage of the treetops could be seen the orange curls of flames, three-quarters of a mile away though they were.
People, calling loudly that "it was Carewe's warehouses," were running down the street.

From the stable, old Nelson, on her father's best horse, came galloping, and seeing the white figure in the doorway, cried out in a quavering voice, without checking his steed.
"I goin' tell yo' pa, Miss Betty, he in de kentry on lan' bus'ness.