Hector’s heart stood still as he realized the peril of the child. He dashed forward on the impulse of the moment, and barely succeeded in catching up the little girl and drawing her back out of harm’s way. The driver, who had done his best to rein up his horses, but without success, ejaculated with fervent gratitude, for he, too, had a child of his own about the age of the little girl, “God bless you, boy.”

The little girl seemed less concerned than anyone of the spectators. She put her hand confidently in Hector’s, and said: “Take me to Mary.”

“And who is Mary?” asked Hector, kindly.

He did not require an answer, for the nurse, who, rather late in the day, had awakened to the fact that her charge was in danger, came running forward, crying: “Oh! Miss Gracie, what made you run away?”

“The little girl would have been killed but for this boy’s timely help,” said a middle-aged spectator, gravely.

“I’m sure I don’t know what possessed her to run away,” said Mary, confusedly.

“She wouldn’t if she had been properly looked after,” said the gentleman, sharply, for he had children of his own.

Hector was about to release the child, now that he had saved her, but she was not disposed to let him go.

“You go with me, too!” she said.

She was a pretty child, with a sweet face, rimmed round by golden curls, her round, red cheeks glowing with exercise.

“What is her name?” asked Hector, of the nurse.

“Grace Newman,” answered the nurse, who felt the necessity of saying something in her own defense. “She’s a perfect little runaway. She worries my life out running round after her.”

“Grace Newman!” said the middle-aged gentleman already referred to. “Why, she must be the child of my friend, Titus Newman, of Pearl Street.”

“Yes, sir,” said the nurse.

“My old friend little knows what a narrow escape his daughter has had.”

“I hope you won’t tell him, sir,” said Mary, nervously.

“Why not?”

“Because he would blame me.”

“And so he ought!” said the gentleman, nodding vigorously. “It’s no merit of yours that she wasn’t crushed beneath the wheels of that carriage. If you had been attending to your duty, she wouldn’t have been in danger.”

“I don’t see as it’s any business of yours,” said Mary, pertly. “You ain’t her father, or her uncle.”

“I am a father, and have common humanity,” said the gentleman, “and I consider you unfit for your place.”

“Come along, Grace!” said Mary, angry at being blamed. “You’ve behaved very badly, and I’m going to take you home.”

“Won’t you come, too?” asked the little girl, turning to Hector.

“No, there’s no call for him to come,” said the nurse, pulling the child away.

“Good-by, Gracie,” said Hector, kindly.

“Good-by!” responded the child.

“These nursemaids neglect their charges criminally,” said the gentleman, directing his remarks to Hector. “Mr. Newman owes his child’s safety, perhaps her life, to your prompt courage.”

“She was in great danger,” said Hector. “I was afraid at first I could not save her.”

“A second later and it would have been too late. What is your name, my brave young friend?”

“Hector Roscoe, sir.”

“It is a good name. Do you live in the city?”

“At present I do, sir. I was brought up in the country.”

“Going to school, I take it.”

“I am looking for a place, sir.”

“I wish I had one to give you. I retired from business two years since, and have no employment for anyone.”

“Thank you, sir; I should have liked to serve you.”

“But I’ll tell you what, my young friend, I have a considerable acquaintance among business men. If you will give me your address, I may have something to communicate to you ere long.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hector drew a card from his pocket, and added to it the number of Mr. Ross’ house.

“I am much obliged to you for your kind offer,” he said.

“You don’t look as if you stood in need of employment,” said the gentleman, noticing the fine material of which Hector’s suit was made.

“Appearances are sometimes deceitful,” said Hector, half smiling.

“You must have been brought up in affluence,” said Mr. Davidson, for this was his name.

“Yes, sir, I was. Till recently I supposed myself rich.”

“You shall tell me the story some time; now I must leave you.”

“Well,” thought Hector, as he made his way homeward, “I have had adventures enough for one morning.”

When Hector reached the house in Forty-second Street, he found Walter just rising from his lessons.

“Well, Hector, what have you been doing?” asked Walter.

“Wandering about the city.”

“Did you see anybody you knew while doing so?”

“Oh, yes! I was particularly favored. I saw Allan Roscoe and Guy—”

“You don’t say so! Were they glad to see you?”

“Not particularly. When Guy learned that I was staying here, he proposed to call and make your acquaintance.”

“I hope you didn’t encourage him,” said Walter, with a grimace.

“No; I told him that we were generally out in the afternoon.”

“That is right.”

“I suppose you have been hard at work, Walter?”

“Ask Mr. Crabb.”

“Walter has done very well,” said the usher. “If he will continue to study as well, I shall have no fault to find.”

“If I do, will you qualify me to be a professor in twelve months’ time?”

“I hope not, for in that case I should lose my scholar, and have to bow to his superior knowledge.”

“Then you don’t know everything, Mr. Crabb?”

“Far from it! I hope your father didn’t engage me in any such illusion.”

“Because,” said Walter, “I had one teacher who pretended to know all there was worth knowing. I remember how annoyed he was once when I caught him in a mistake in geography.”

“I shall not be annoyed at all when you find me out in a mistake, for I don’t pretend to be very learned.”

“Then I think we’ll get along,” said Walter, favorably impressed by the usher’s modesty.

“I suppose if I didn’t know anything we should get along even better,” said Mr. Crabb, amused.

“Well, perhaps that might be carrying things too far!” Walter admitted.

In the afternoon Hector and Walter spent two hours at the gymnasium in Twenty-eighth Street, and walked leisurely home after a healthful amount of exercise.

For some reason, which he could not himself explain, Hector said nothing to Walter about his rescue of the little girl on Madison Avenue, though he heard of it at the gymnasium.

One of the boys, Henry Carroll, said to Walter: “There was a little girl came near being run over on Madison Avenue this noon!”

“Did you see it?”

“No, but I heard of it.”

“Who was the little girl?”

“Grace Newman.”

“I know who she is. How did it happen?”

The boy gave a pretty correct account.

“Some boy saved her,” he concluded, “by running forward and hauling her out of the road just in time. He ran the risk of being run over himself. Mr. Newman thinks everything of little Grace. I’d like to be in that boy’s shoes.”

Neither of the boys noticed that Hector’s face was flushed, as he listened to the account of his own exploit.

The next morning, among the letters laid upon the breakfast table was one for Hector Roscoe.

“A letter for you, Hector,” said Mr. Ross, examining the envelope in some surprise. “Are you acquainted with Titus Newman, the Pearl Street merchant?”

“No, sir,” answered Hector, in secret excitement.

“He seems to have written to you,” said Mr. Ross.

Hector took the letter and tore open the envelope.