The _Republic_ at this time had instituted what it called a “reward for heroism” medal to be given to whosoever should perform a truly heroic deed during the current year within the city or its immediate suburbs. Thinking over this girl’s deed as I went along, and wondering how I should proceed in the matter of retaining her interest, I thought of this medal and asked myself why it should not be given to her. She was certainly worthy of it. Plainly she was a hero, riding thus in the darkness and in the face of such a crime—and good-looking too!—and eighteen! After I had reached the office and written a most glowing account of all this for the late edition, I decided to speak to Wandell the next day, and did. He fell in with the idea at once. “A fine idea,” he squeaked shrilly. “Bully—we’ll do that! You’ll have to go back, though, and see whether she’ll accept it. Sometimes these people won’t stand for all this notoriety stuff, you know. But if she does——By the way,” he asked quickly, “is she good-looking?” “Sure,” I replied enthusiastically. “She’s very good-looking—a beauty, I think.” “Well, if that’s the case all the better. She must be made to give you a picture. Don’t let her crawl out of that, even if you have to bring her down here or take her to a photographer. If she accepts I’ll order the medal tomorrow, and you can write the whole thing up. It’ll make a fine Sunday feature, eh? Dreiser’s girl hero! What!” This medal idea was just the thing to take me back to her, the excuse I needed and one that ought to bring her close to me if anything could. For the time being, I had forgotten all about Miss W—— and her charms. She came into my mind, but it was so all-important for me to follow up this new interest—one that I could manage quite as well as not, along with the other. I dressed in my very best clothes the next morning, excluding the amazing coat, and sallied forth to find my heroine. After considerable difficulty I managed to place her in a very simple home on what had once been a farm. Her father, who opened the door, was a German of the most rigid and austere mien—a Lutheran, I think—her mother a simple and pleasant-looking fat _hausfrau_. In the garish noon light my heroine was neither so melodramatic nor so poignant as she had seemed the night before. There was something less alive and less delicate in her composition, mental and physical, and yet she was by no means dull. Perhaps she lacked the excitement and the crowd. She had a peculiar mouth, a little wide but sweet, and a most engaging smile. Incidentally, it now developed that she had a younger sister, darker, more graceful, almost more attractive than herself.