"No--no! Grandmamma smells a smell. She thinks something is burning
somewhere."
"Oh--"
The whole place, house, yard, grounds, outhouses, swarmed with bellowing
negroes. Those that were not bellowing were muttering in sleepy,
quarrelsome protest.
And they all carried candles to look for a fire in the dark!
There were at least seventy--two-thirds of them too old or too young to
be of any service, but they belonged to the house.
The old Colonel's voice could be heard a mile. In his nightgown he was
roaring from the balcony, giving his orders for the busy crowd hunting
for fire with their candles flickering in the shadows.
Old Mrs. Barton, serenely deaf, was of course oblivious of the sensation
she had created. The loss of her hearing had rendered doubly acute her
sense of smell. Candles had to be taken out of her room to be snuffed.
Lamps were extinguished only on the portico or on the lawn. Violets she
couldn't endure. A tea rose was never allowed in her room. Only one kind
of sweet rose would she tolerate at close range.
In the mildest voice she was suggesting places to be searched.
Far out at the negro quarters the candle brigade at length gathered--the
flickering lights closing in to a single point one by one.
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