"You can't; it's certain death," said one or two. Several other voices were also raised in expostulation. But if any one in that crowd supposed that they were going to turn George Anderson, the bravest fireman in London, from his purpose, they were mistaken.
"That little angel face, and the face of the boy by her side!" he said once or twice under his breath. And then up and up he went—up and up—the children in the burning room (for the flames had broken out behind them now) watching and watching. His fear was that they might fall from their perilous position. But they had both crept out on to the window-ledge.
"Courage, courage!" he shouted to them. "Hold tight—I'll be there in a minute!"
"The window is so hot!" gasped Connie.
"Think—think of the Voice," whispered Ronald.
He closed his eyes. In another minute he would have been beyond all earthly succor, and up in those beautiful realms where angels live, and his mother would meet him. But this was not to be.
In less than an instant a firm hand rescued the two children from their perilous position, and they were brought down to the ground uninjured. Ronald fainted in that descent, but Connie kept her consciousness. They were out of Mammy Warren's awful house. She had a queer sense as though she had been delivered from a worse danger even than fire.
People crowded round, and presently the tall fireman came up.
"What is your name?" he said to Connie.
"Connie," she replied.