Perhaps, in his fear and in the urgency of the moment, he moved too quickly, too roughly--for, suddenly, the scarf came unbound and floated into his hands. She gave him one long look, of anguish, of incomprehensible despair, of final farewell. Then she turned and, before he could move to stop her, she had gone. She seemed, in his horrified eyes, to dart, to fly, into the very heart of the flames. It was as if, having seen them, she was drawn to them as by a magnet. It was as if a moth.... Afterward, of course, they called him a hero. They made a great fuss and pother over him. There were pictures of him in the newspapers, and pictures of the children. But whenever he spoke of _her_, everyone looked at him kindly, even pityingly. “_Shock_,” they said. “Shock and the horror of the fire.” But he could never quite accept this theory--for how did they explain the scarf he still had, the golden, glistening, gossamer scarf, that he still has to this day. The children never spoke to him of her, but, for a long time afterward, they looked at him with sad, remembering, pitying eyes. Did _they_ know? He was never to find out. By the time he acquired the wisdom to ask them, it was too late. They were no longer children--they were merely boys and girls. Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from Satellite Science Fiction October 1956 (vol. 1, no. 1). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.