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.
Nevertheless, a scrap of ember, hidden from the men's gaze beneath a handful of dead leaves had refused to perish with its comrade-sparks.
And, in the course of five hours, an industrious little flicker had ignited other bits of brush and of dried leafage and last year's weed stumps.