just time! He had to run through the fire, and his hair and beard were singed, and his clothes; but he got through, half blinded and choked, and almost strangled, too, for the old miser was clutching his throat all the time, and screaming out that he had murdered him." "Why did he not drop him?" inquired Rita. "My faith, why should he be saved, the old vegetable?" "Oh, Rita, you don't know what you are saying. It was a human life, and of course he _had_ to save it; but it did seem cruel that the precious books and papers had to be sacrificed for just wretched money. That was the heroic part of it,--Papa's leaving the things that meant more to him than anything in the world, except me and his friends, and saving the old miser's money." "If he could have saved him and the books, and let the money go to Jericho!" said Peggy; "but I suppose he couldn't." "That was just it! The man was really out of his mind, you see, and if Papa had left him he might have run into the fire, or jumped out of the window, or done any other crazy thing. Well, that is my story, girls. Who shall come next,--you, Rita?" Rita had been only partly roused by the story of the fire. An uncle saving a dirty old man and his money did not specially appeal to her; the hero should have been young and ardent, and should have saved a lady from the burning house. Peggy wanted to be responsive, but it seemed a great fuss to make over musty old books and papers; probably they were like those that Margaret made such a time about in the library here; Peggy had looked at some of them, and they were as dry as dry could be. If he had saved a dog, now, or a child,--and at the thought her eyes brightened. "Do heroines count," she asked; "or must it be a man?" "Of course they count!" cried Margaret, bending over her work to hide the tears that came to her eyes. She felt the glow checked in her heart,--knew that her story, her beloved story, had not struck the note that always thrilled her when she saw in thought her father, slender, gray-haired, carrying out the strange man, and leaving behind him, without a word, the fruits of years of toil. "Of course heroines count, my dear! Have you one for us?" "Ma did something nice once," said Peggy shyly; "she saved my life when I was a baby." "Tell us!" cried both girls, and Rita's eyes brightened, for this seemed to promise better. "It was when Pa first took up the claim," said Peggy. "The country was pretty wild then,--Indians about, and a good many big beasts: panthers, and mountain lions, and so on. I was the only girl, and I was two years old. Pa used to be out on the claim all day, and the boys with him, all except Hugh, and he was in bed at that time; and Ma used to work in the garden, and keep me by her so that I wouldn't get into mischief.