“But why not?”

“Because Hector is modest,” Mr. Ross answered for him.  “Now, if you had done such a thing, Walter, we should have been sure to hear of it.”

“I don’t know,” returned Walter, comically.  “You don’t know how many lives I have saved within the last few years.”

“Nor anyone else, I fancy,” replied his father.  “By the way, Hector, there is a paragraph about it in the Herald of this morning.  I read it, little suspecting that you were the boy whose name the reporter was unable to learn.”

Hector read the paragraph in question with excusable pride.  It was, in the main, correct.

“How old was the little girl?” asked Walter.

“Four years old, I should think.”

“That isn’t quite so romantic as if she had been three times as old.”

“I couldn’t have rescued her quite as easily, in that case.”

Of course, Hector was called upon for an account of the affair, which he gave plainly, without adding any of those embellishments which some boys, possibly some of my young readers, might have been tempted to put in.

“You are fortunate to have obliged a man like Titus Newman, Hector,” said Mr. Ross.  “He is a man of great wealth and influence.”

“Do you know him, papa?” asked Walter.

“No—­that is, not at all well.  I have been introduced to him.”

Punctually at eight o’clock Hector ascended the steps of a handsome residence on Madison Avenue.  The door was opened by a colored servant, of imposing manners.

“Is Mr. Newman at home?” asked Hector, politely.

“Yes, sar.”

“Be kind enough to hand him this card?”

“Yes, sar.”

Presently the servant reappeared, saying: 

“Mr. Newman will see you, sar, in the library.  I will induct you thither.”

“Thank you,” answered Hector, secretly amused at the airs put on by his sable conductor.

Seated at a table, in a handsomely furnished library, sat a stout gentleman of kindly aspect.  He rose quickly from his armchair and advanced to meet our hero.

“I am glad to see you, my young friend,” he said.  “Sit there,” pointing to a smaller armchair opposite.  “So you are the boy who rescued my dear little girl?”

His voice softened as he uttered these last few words, and it was easy to see how strong was the paternal love that swelled his heart.

“I was fortunate in having the opportunity, Mr. Newman.”

“You have rendered me a service I can never repay.  When I think that but for you the dear child—­” his voice faltered.

“Don’t think of it, Mr. Newman,” said Hector, earnestly.  “I don’t like to think of it myself.”

“And you exposed yourself to great danger, my boy!”

“I suppose I did, sir; but that did not occur to me at the time.  It was all over in an instant.”

“I see you are modest, and do not care to take too great credit to yourself, but I shall not rest till I have done something to express my sense of your noble courage.  Now, I am a man of business, and it is my custom to come to the point directly.  Is there any way in which I can serve you.”