Now, of course, you know what happened, because you have read _Harriett and the Matches_, and all the rest of the stories that have been written to persuade children not to play with fire. No one was playing with fire that day, it is true, or doing anything really naughty at all--but however naughty we had been the thing that happened couldn't have been much worse. For the flying machine as it came rushing round the curve of the staircase banged against the legs of Hilda. She screamed and stumbled back. Her pink paper wings went into the gas that hadn't a globe. They flamed up, her hair frizzled, and her lace collar caught fire. Rupert could not do anything because he was held fast in his flying machine, and he and it were rolling painfully on the mat at the bottom of the stairs. [Illustration: Sidney threw the rug over her, and rolled her over and over.] Hilda screamed. I have since heard that a great yellow light fell on the pages of _Treasure Island_. Next moment _Treasure Island_ went spinning across the room. Sidney caught up the fur rug that was part of the wigwam, and as Hilda, screaming horribly, and with wings not of paper but of flames, rushed down the staircase, and stumbled over the flying machine, Sidney threw the rug over her, and rolled her over and over on the floor. 'Lie down!' he cried. 'Lie down! It's the only way.' But somehow people never will lie down when their clothes are on fire, any more than they will lie still in the water if they think they are drowning, and some one is trying to save them. It came to something very like a fight. Hilda fought and struggled. Rupert got out of his fire-guards and added himself and his tea-tray to the scrimmage. Hugh slid down to the knob of the banisters and sat there yelling. The servants came rushing in. But by that time the fire was out. And Sidney gasped out, 'It's all right. You aren't burned, Hilda, are you?' Hilda was much too frightened to know whether she was burnt or not, but Eliza looked her over, and it turned out that only her neck was a little scorched, and a good deal of her hair frizzled off short. Every one stood, rather breathless and pale, and every one's face was much dirtier than customary, except Hugh's, which he had, as usual, dirtied thoroughly quite early in the afternoon. Rupert felt perfectly awful, ashamed and proud and rather sick. 'You're a regular hero, Sidney,' he said--and it was not easy to say--'and yesterday I said you were a related muff. And I'm jolly sorry I did. Shake hands, won't you?' Sidney hesitated. 'Too proud?' Rupert's feelings were hurt, and I should not wonder if he spoke rather fiercely. 'It's--it's a little burnt, I think,' said Sidney, 'don't be angry,' and he held out the left hand. Rupert grasped it. 'I do beg your pardon,' he said, 'you _are_ a hero!' * * * * * Sidney's hand was bad for ever so long, but we were tremendous chums after that.