"Give her to me, son," said a hearty voice; then, it seemed to Allen miraculously, he was relieved of his burden. Swaying, dizzy, he clung to the windowsill to keep himself erect. "Now I guess I can die," he heard himself saying, through an eternity of space. "You just hold tight, son," said the hearty voice, as its owner carefully lowered himself and the poor little unconscious figure down the ladder. "I'll be back for you in jig time." But it was an eternity while Allen waited, every nerve tense in the fight for consciousness, red hot irons searing his flesh, that roaring hades of flames creeping closer, closer---- "Your turn, son!" Dimly he saw the helmeted head through a haze of smoke and tried to speak--but no sound came from between his cracked, parched lips. He swayed. A brawny arm gripped him like a vise. "Can you climb out," asked the voice, "or will I have to carry you?" [Illustration: "ALLEN!" SHE CRIED, DRAWING A CHAIR TO THE BED-SIDE.] Allen's head jerked up proudly, and he forced still a little more from that splendid reserve of strength. Afterward he could never remember how he clambered over that windowsill, and got his feet upon the ladder. That he did it and managed the descent with the aid of the firemen, he afterward learned from his friends. All he could remember, was the great shout which came to him like a little murmur that went up from the crowd at sight of him. He was a hero, a great hero, but at the time the fact interested him not at all. He wanted to sleep--to sleep--if they would only let him sleep! Four days later, he awoke and looked around him lazily. A delightful drowsiness surrounded him; he was too comfortable even to inquire where he was. Then a sweet voice reached his ears and he turned his head sharply. "No, thank you," it said. "I think I'll take these to him myself, if you don't mind. This door? Thank you." Fascinated, Allen watched the door as it slowly opened, admitting--Betty! Betty, sweeter and more beautiful than he had ever seen her. Her eyes widened at sight of him, and she ran forward impulsively. "Allen!" she cried, drawing a chair to the bedside and taking his outstretched hand. "Oh, I'm so glad! I was afraid you were just going to sleep on forever. How do you feel?" "Not at all," he responded whimsically, his eyes devouring her face. "I haven't been awake long enough to feel anything--except your hand in mine," he added softly. She thoughtfully regarded the hand he still held, yet did not try to draw it away. Instead she smiled a little--a smile that set Allen's heart to throbbing painfully, and said, so softly he could hardly hear her: "Aren't you just a little bit curious to know what I think of you--and everybody else, for that matter--after what you did the other day?" "Yes, what do you think of me?" he asked breathlessly. "I've wanted ever since I can remember, to know that."