Fright made their faces wrinkled, and such looks the ladies had never seen before. Suddenly a cry went up. The flames were roaring, engines pumping and much noise sounding, but this shriek pierced the hearts of all—it was a mother’s wail. “My child! my child—save her!” All eyes were fastened upon a window up in the third story where the face of a flaxen-haired little girl appeared—blanched with fear, and yet curious to see what was going on. The ladder wagon had not arrived, and the flames were devouring the frail tenement. Surely the child was lost—no one could save her there. It was an awful period of suspense to the thousands who looked on. Lillian and her sister held their breath and leaned on Joe for support. Then the child vanished. “Heavens! she has gone—the floor has probably fallen in,” gasped Joe. “No, no, look! there is a man at the window—he has seized the child and is tying her to himself. Look! he climbs out of the windows. Ugh! if he loses his grip both will be dashed to pieces.” They gaze as if fascinated, both of the gentle ladies praying for the daring man’s success. He swings himself boldly along the ledge—none but a quick-witted man could have seen the chance that existed, but he had. Reaching a certain spot he took hold of the pipe that ran down the building—it must have burned his hands, but he lowered himself by it to the floor below. Flames were beneath, but he had arranged his plan—a tall telegraph pole slanted in here and a dexterous man could leap in among its numerous arms—he coolly calculated his chances and sprang out. There was a cry of horror. “He is down—no, no, by Jove, he clings there with one hand. See how bravely he exerts himself—as cool as a cucumber through all. Now he seizes a new support; he will slide down the pole. Hurrah! both are safe, thank heaven.” Then Joe turned to Marian. “What do you think of that man?” he asked. “He is a hero—I love him,” she said impulsively. “Good! I shall let him know that fact some day. Here he comes now with the child on his shoulder, his face blackened, his hair scorched, but, thank God, the same Eric as of old.” The man passed them by—it was Eric Darrell! Marian turned white and then rosy red. “Joe,” she said almost fiercely, “if you ever repeat my words, I’ll—go back to Chicago.” Whether Joe repeated them or not no one ever knew, but Eric heard enough to encourage him to renew his suit, and when Marian did return to Chicago it was as Mrs. Darrell. They are just as happy as Joe and Lillian—Eric is no longer a detective, but has been studying for a doctor, as his wife believes he will make a name in the profession. She will never forget watching him save the widow’s child at the risk of his life—outwardly she loves him as a true wife, but in secret she adores her Eric as a hero of heroes. THE END