it out of the window, and then he took the
old miser on his back and ran for his life. Oh, girls, there was only
just time! He had to run through the fire, and his hair and beard were
singed, and his clothes; but he got through, half blinded and choked,
and almost strangled, too, for the old miser was clutching his throat
all the time, and screaming out that he had murdered him."

"Why did he not drop him?" inquired Rita. "My faith, why should he be
saved, the old vegetable?"

"Oh, Rita, you don't know what you are saying. It was a human life, and
of course he _had_ to save it; but it did seem cruel that the precious
books and papers had to be sacrificed for just wretched money. That was
the heroic part of it,--Papa's leaving the things that meant more to him
than anything in the world, except me and his friends, and saving the
old miser's money."

"If he could have saved him and the books, and let the money go to
Jericho!" said Peggy; "but I suppose he couldn't."

"That was just it! The man was really out of his mind, you see, and if
Papa had left him he might have run into the fire, or jumped out of the
window, or done any other crazy thing. Well, that is my story, girls.
Who shall come next,--you, Rita?"

Rita had been only partly roused by the story of the fire. An uncle
saving a dirty old man and his money did not specially appeal to her;
the hero should have been young and ardent, and should have saved a lady
from the burning house. Peggy wanted to be responsive, but it seemed a
great fuss to make over musty old books and papers; probably they were
like those that Margaret made such a time about in the library here;
Peggy had looked at some of them, and they were as dry as dry could be.
If he had saved a dog, now, or a child,--and at the thought her eyes
brightened.

"Do heroines count," she asked; "or must it be a man?"

"Of course they count!" cried Margaret, bending over her work to hide
the tears that came to her eyes. She felt the glow checked in her
heart,--knew that her story, her beloved story, had not struck the note
that always thrilled her when she saw in thought her father, slender,
gray-haired, carrying out the strange man, and leaving behind him,
without a word, the fruits of years of toil.

"Of course heroines count, my dear! Have you one for us?"

"Ma did something nice once," said Peggy shyly; "she saved my life when
I was a baby."

"Tell us!" cried both girls, and Rita's eyes brighte