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CHAPTER VI.
THE OPERA
The girls spent the next day in a very quiet manner. The morning passed quickly as they wrote letters and fixed up their rooms. About dinner time Jim knocked at the door and Dorothy answered.
“Dorothy, I have written and ’phoned Mr. Ford and I can’t seem to get any answer from him,” announced Jim.
“What did you want him for, Jim?” questioned Dorothy.
“Why, I wanted to get his opinion on that position I want to take with the Edison Co.,” answered Jim.
“I have it!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Send him a telegram.”
“I might try that, though I have about made up my mind – ”
Just at that moment Aunt Betty called from her room, “Dorothy, Dorothy, girl!”
“Yes, Aunt Betty,” answered Dorothy, going to her aunt’s door. “What may you want?”
“Don’t you think it would be real nice if we four went for a drive this afternoon? It’s a nice warm afternoon and we can go up Fifth avenue and into the park,” suggested Aunt Betty.
“That will be fine. I’ll run and tell Alfy and we’ll get ready,” responded Dorothy, going quickly out of the room. “Alfy! Alfy! Where are you?”
“In here,” called Alfy from her room.
Dorothy rushed into the room, crying, “Alfy dear, just think, we are going driving this afternoon, Aunt Betty, Jim, and you and I. We are going driving – driving.”
“Oh, that’s just great,” exclaimed Alfy, dancing round the room. “It’s fun to go driving in a big city.”
“Let’s get ready right away,” said Dorothy, taking Alfy’s hand and dancing round in a circle with her, singing, “Let’s get ready, let’s get ready, let’s get ready right away.” And then they let go of each other’s hands and danced away to accomplish the art of “getting ready right away.”
Very soon the girls were in the sitting room waiting for Jim and Aunt Betty.
Just then Jim burst into the room crying, “Dorothy, I can’t get a horse and carriage here to drive myself like one has in Baltimore, but I did get a nice automobile. I guess it will not cost any more, for we cover so much ground in a short time. I found a large, red touring car that just holds five and the chauffeur is downstairs now waiting for us, so hustle into your things.”
“An auto ride! That’s better still,” responded Alfy as she rushed to put on her hat and coat.
“I am all ready, dear,” called Aunt Betty from the next room.
“Well, then, come on,” answered Jim. “All come with me.” And they followed him down and out to the automobile.
They were very much delighted with the auto car, and the three, Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Alfy, climbed into the back seat, and Jim took his place with the driver.
Aunt Betty called, “Jim, Jim, please tell the chauffeur to drive slowly and to go up Fifth avenue.”
Away they went. “Oh, oh, oh!” gasped Alfy at the first corner. “Oh, I most thought we would bump into that trolley car!”
“Well,” said Jim, “we didn’t, but it was a pretty close shave.”
“Just think of all the people we might have hurt if we had,” said Dorothy.
“I guess,” replied Jim, “that the only ones hurt would have been ourselves, for the trolley is so heavy we couldn’t have bothered that much.”
Just then they turned into Fifth avenue and joined the procession of already too many machines that were slowly wending their way up and down that old thoroughfare.
“Dorothy and Alfy,” said Aunt Betty, “in those large houses live the very rich of New York.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t live in a house like that,” said Alfy, “if I was rich. I couldn’t, I just could never be happy in one like that,” pointing to a large gray stone mansion. “It hasn’t any garden and windows only in the front, and looks like a pile of boxes, one on top of the other.”
“Don’t the people in New York care for gardens, aunty dear?” questioned Dorothy.
“Yes. Yes, indeed, dear. But these are only their winter homes,” laughed Aunt Betty. “They have summer homes in the country where they have very beautiful gardens. They only spend a few months here in these houses each winter.”
“Well, I would rather have a real home for all the time,” said practical Jim. “A real home, like Bellevieu.”
“Dear, dear old Bellevieu, I wouldn’t exchange it either for all of these places,” whispered Dorothy. “And after this trip is over, and I have made a lot of money, we will all go back there again, and I will build that new sun-parlor Aunt Betty has so long wanted.”
Aunt Betty sighed, for she and she only knew how badly off was the poor old estate. The mortgage that must be paid and the repairs and other things that were needed. She hoped that Dorothy’s trip would be a success, and that she could pay off the mortgage at last.
Then answering Dorothy, she said, “Dear, dear little girl, you are always trying to think of something pleasant for someone else. Never mind your old Aunt Betty, dear.”
“But I do,” whispered Dorothy in her ear, “because I love you more than anyone else in the world.”
“Yes, dear, maybe now you do,” rejoined Aunt Betty, “but some day, some day wait and see.”
They eagerly looked at the beautiful homes, the large and handsome hotels and most of all the happy throng of people who filled the streets, remarking that they had never before seen quite so many people, each hurrying along apparently to do his or her special duty.
From Fifth avenue they went up Riverside Drive, around Grant’s Tomb. Then as the limit of time they had arranged for was nearly up they told the chauffeur to drive home, all happy and full of thoughts of the new things they had seen.
“Well, what next, Dorothy girl?” exclaimed Aunt Betty.
“Why, I don’t quite know. Let me see – just what day is this?” said Dorothy to herself. “It’s – it’s – oh, yes, it’s Friday! Oh, oh! Why we must all hurry, hurry, hurry – dress right at once.”
“Dorothy, child, what ails you?” laughed Aunt Betty. “Talking away so fast and all to yourself. Come now, tell me what you want us to dress for?”
“Why, aunty, I had most forgotten it. It’s Friday, and we promised – I mean I promised – but I forgot all about it,” continued Dorothy.
Just then Alfy interrupted. “Dorothy I am most dead with curiosity; tell us quick, please.”
“Well,” rejoined Dorothy, “it’s just this. You see, I promised – ”
“You said all that before,” interrupted Alfy again.
“Be still, Alfy, or I just won’t tell,” scolded Dorothy. “Mr. Ludlow is coming here at eight o’clock to take us all to the opera. Miss Boothington, Ruth, is going also. He told me to tell you all, and I just guess I must have since then forgotten. I don’t see how I did, but I just did. Oh, aunty, it’s a box Mr. Ludlow has and we must dress all up ’cause all the millionaires of New York go to the opera.”
“Dorothy dear, whatever made you forget?” asked Aunt Betty.
“Guess ’cause she is doing and seeing so much she has lost track of the days. Isn’t that so?” chimed in Alfy.
“That doesn’t excuse my little girl,” remarked Aunt Betty, and turning to Dorothy, “What is it we are going to hear, dearest?”
“I think Mr. Ludlow said ‘Koenigskinder’,” answered Dorothy. “I am not sure but that’s what I think he said.”
“Ah, yes,” said Aunt Betty, “that is a comparatively new opera and Miss Geraldine Farrar sings the principal part in it. She plays the part of the goose-girl. Well, I guess we had better hurry. We must dress and have dinner before Mr. Ludlow gets here for us.”
“Can I wear that new pink dress, Aunty?” called Dorothy.
“Why, dear, I would keep that one for one of your concerts, and if I were you I would wear the little white one with the blue ribbons, and tell Alfy she might wear the white dress Miss Lenox made for her before we left Baltimore,” said Aunt Betty.
“All right,” called back Dorothy.
It didn’t take the girls long to get dressed, and when they were finished they appeared in the sitting room. Both Jim and Aunt Betty declared that there weren’t two finer girls in all New York City. And Jim added under his breath, “In all the world,” thinking only of Dorothy then.
Down they went for dinner, and so anxious were they that they should not be late that the meal was passed over as quickly and quietly as possible.
They had just reached their rooms when Mr. Ludlow was announced, and gathering up their wraps and long white gloves – for Alfy thought more of these white gloves than anything else she owned just then – they went forth to meet Mr. Ludlow.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Ludlow, who was standing beside Ruth in the lobby, “all here and all ready. I do wish you would set the same example of promptness for Ruth. She is always, always late.”
“Well,” replied Ruth, “somehow I always try but just can’t seem to get dressed in time. I didn’t keep you waiting very long to-day, did I?”
“Well, dear, that is because I said that the longer you kept me waiting, the less you could have for dinner,” laughed Mr. Ludlow.
“Maybe that is why, because I do get so tired of boarding house meals,” rejoined Ruth, and, turning to Dorothy, “Come dear, the auto is all ready and we are not so very early.”
The others followed them and soon they reached the Metropolitan Opera House, and after passing through the crowded lobby, entered the foyer. It was quite dark, and very quietly they followed Mr. Ludlow, whose box was on the right hand side, well toward the stage.
They were presently all seated, but before they had time to talk or look around much the music began. And such music. Dorothy was oblivious to all else as she followed the score. For memory’s convenience she wrote out the plot of the opera, the next day, and here is a copy from her diary:
The Goose-Girl lives in the hills which look down in the town of Hellabrunn. Around her stray her geese. She lies on the green grass, beneath the branches of a shady linden-tree. Near her is the hut which she inhabits with an old cruel Witch. Behind her stretch wild woods and lonely mountains. She sings and feeds her flock. The Witch appears, scolding and berating the girl, whom she orders to prepare a magic pasty which will kill whoever eats of it. The Goose-Girl begs the Witch to let her go into the world of men. But she implores in vain.
Out of the woods, and from the hills, a youth comes roving. He seems poor. But by his side there hangs a sword and in his hand he holds a bundle. He is the King’s Son, though the Goose-Girl does not know it. And in the bundle is a royal crown.
The King’s Son tells the Goose-Girl of his wanderings. He has left his home, and the King’s service, to be free. The Goose-Girl asks him what a King may be. He answers her, marvelling at her beauty and her ignorance. She longs to follow him. He falls in love with her, and asks her to go maying with him, through the summer land. He kisses her; and then a gust of wind blows the girl’s wreath away. The King’s Son picks up the wreath and hides it near his heart. In exchange for it he offers her his crown. The sweethearts are about to run off together when a wild wind alarms them and the Goose-Girl finds her feet glued to the ground. Thinking she is afraid to roam with him the King’s Son tosses his crown into the grass, tells the girl that she is unworthy to be a King’s mate and leaves her, vowing she shall never see him more till a star has fallen into a fair lily which is blooming near.
The Goose-Girl is still sighing for her lover, when the Witch returns, abuses her for having wasted her time on a man and weaves a magic spell to prevent her escape.
A Fiddler enters, singing a strange song. He is followed by two citizens of Hellabrunn, a Woodcutter and a Broom (or besom) maker, who have been sent to ask the Witch where they can find the son of the King, who is just dead. They are in mortal fear of the old woman. But the Fiddler scoffs at her and all her arts. The Fiddler, acting as their mouthpiece, says that the people of Hellabrunn are dying to have a King or a Queen to rule over them. The Witch replies that the first person, rich or in rags, who enters the town gate next day at noon should be enthroned. The Woodcutter and Broom-maker go back to Hellabrunn. But the Fiddler lingers, suspecting that the Goose-Girl is in the hut. Soon she appears and confides her sorrows to the Fiddler, who assures her she shall wed the King’s Son. The Witch, however, jeers at the thought and tells the Fiddler that the girl is the child of a hangman’s daughter. In spite of all, the Goose-Girl plucks up heart, for she feels that her soul is royal and she knows that she will not shame her kingly lover. She prays to her dead father and mother for help. And as she kneels, a shooting star falls into the lily. The Goose-Girl runs off into the woods with her flock, to join her sweetheart, and this ends the first act.
In the second act the town of Hellabrunn is in a turmoil of excitement, awaiting the new ruler. Near the town-gate is an inn. The Innkeeper’s Daughter is scolding the Stable-Maid, when the King’s Son enters, poorly clad as before. Though she despises his poverty, the Innkeeper’s Daughter coquettes with him; for he is comely. She gives him food and drink, which seem coarse to him, and advises him to get married. He declines and arouses the girl’s anger.
The people enter, seat themselves and drink. A Gate-keeper forbids any to approach the gate, which must be left free for the coming King. Musicians enter, playing pipes and bagpipes. A dance begins. The Innkeeper and his servants bustle about. He sees the King’s Son, who offers himself to him as an apprentice, but is told that there is no work for him, unless he is willing to be a swineherd. He consents. The Woodcutter appears, with the Broom-maker and his thirteen daughters. The Woodcutter, swelling with importance, tosses a gulden on the Innkeeper’s table, to wipe out an old score, but pockets it again when unobserved.
One of the Broom-maker’s daughters asks the King’s Son to play at Ring-a-rosy with her. Their game is interrupted by the entrance of the Town Councillors and well-to-do Burghers, with their wives and children. The Councillors seat themselves in a tribune erected for them and the eldest of them invites the Woodcutter to relate his adventures in the woods. The King’s Son is amazed to hear him tell of imaginary dangers which he has encountered with the Broom-maker. He learns from the Woodcutter’s account, however, that on the stroke of twelve a King’s Son, richly clad, and bright with gems, will enter by the now closed gate. He asks the people if the expected monarch might not come in rags. They laugh at the idea and he is accused of being a meddler, rogue and thief. The clock strikes twelve. The crowd rushes toward the gate. An intuition warns the King’s Son who is near. Then, as the gate is opened, the poor Goose-Girl enters, escorted by her geese. She tells the King’s Son she has come to join him on his throne. But the crowd jeers at her and scorns her youthful lover and though the Fiddler storms and rages at their blindness, the two lovers are driven out with sticks and stones. Only the Fiddler and the little daughter of the Broom-maker believe them worthy of the throne.
This was where the curtain went down and I thought it was the end. Oh, how disappointed I was, and then how happy, when I knew there was another act.
Winter has come. Since the expulsion of the King’s Son and his sweetheart, the Witch has been burned at the stake for her supposed betrayal of the people to whom she had promised a new ruler. The Fiddler, who has been maimed and imprisoned for defending the outcasts, now lives alone in the Witch’s hut, where he is feeding the doves the Goose-Girl has left behind. He is disturbed by the arrival of the Woodcutter and the Broom-maker, with a troop of children who have come to entreat him to come back to Hellabrunn. He refuses. But when one of the children begs him to lead them all in search of the lost King’s Son and his bride, he consents. The Woodcutter and the Broom-maker withdraw into the hut, where they discover the poisoned pasty which the Witch had baked.
Hardly have the echoes of a song sung by the Fiddler died away, when the King’s Son and the Goose-Girl re-appear, hungry and thirsting and worn out with wandering. They stop to rest and the King’s Son knocks at the door of the hut to beg food and shelter. The Woodcutter refuses to give them anything. To comfort her sweetheart, the Goose-Girl pretends she is none the worse for her long travels over hill and dale in the vain effort to discover the King’s Son’s old home. She sings and dances to him. But she soon grows faint and falls. To save his love from starving, the King’s Son then barters his royal crown, which he has found again, for the poisoned pasty. The outcasts eat it and soon after die, fancying themselves happy in a land of love and roses. With her last breath the Goose-Girl braves grim Death who threatens her and sighs “I love thee, dear!”
The Fiddler and the troop of little children then return, only to learn that they have found the outcasts but to lose them. They lay the youthful lovers on a bier and bear them away to bury them on a high hill. And as they go, they sing a last lament for the poor “Kingly Children.”
After the opera, Mr. Ludlow invited them to a supper at one of the cafes, but Aunt Betty demurred, as it was quite late, and so they were driven straight home.
“Alfy,” said Dorothy, when they had reached their rooms, “you are such a funny girl. You didn’t half pay attention to the opera at all. All I saw you doing was looking at the ladies in the boxes.”
“I was trying to remember the dress of the lady in that one box, the one that glistened all over with diamonds. I wanted to write and tell Ma Babcock just how to make it. It was so stylish, and had such a nice low neck and long train,” said Alfy.
“Alfy, are you sure you are not crazy?” laughed Dorothy. “Oh, oh! Just imagine Ma Babcock in a dress like that! Oh, dear! It’s so funny.”
“Why, Dorothy!” angrily added Alfy, “why couldn’t ma have a dress like that? And anyway, I couldn’t understand a word they were singing. I am going right to bed, I am, so there!”
“Alfy, dear, don’t you know that people only wear dresses like that to evening affairs, and, of course, you couldn’t understand, it was all in German. Here, kiss me good-night.” The girls kissed each other and were soon fast asleep.
CHAPTER VII.
AN EPISODE
The next morning no one arose very early. They were all quite willing to rest. Jim, first of all, was up and out. He had been working over a list of boarding houses as he had quite decided to take the position, and his salary would not permit him to live in an expensive hotel. He had not been very successful and on returning to the hotel found Aunt Betty reading in their sitting room.
“Aunt Betty,” said Jim.
“Yes,” answered Aunt Betty, “what is it? Do you want to talk business with me?”
“Yes, business,” responded Jim, doubtfully. “I have been out all the morning trying to find a boarding house.”
“A boarding house?” echoed Aunt Betty.
“Yes, a boarding house,” answered Jim. “You see I have quite decided to take the position. I received a letter from Mr. Ford’s secretary saying Mr. Ford is abroad, and not expected back for some time. And if I work there at the Edison, I must live in a boarding house not too far away from there. I didn’t have much luck.”
“Why not ask Mr. Ludlow? He might know of a place,” suggested Aunt Betty. “Or maybe you could see if there is a room at that place where Ruth, Miss Boothington, is staying. You remember her saying that she was tired of boarding house meals, do you not?”
“I never thought of that,” added Jim. “Suppose I ask Dorothy where she lives, maybe she knows.”
“Yes, call her,” replied Aunt Betty.
“Dorothy! Dorothy! Where are you?” called Jim.
“Here, in Alfy’s room, I have been writing in my diary,” answered the girl. “I will be there in just a minute. Oh, dear,” she continued to herself, “I just can’t seem to ever write to Frau. Every time I start on that letter someone calls, and then I stop writing, and it is so long before I can get at it again. I have to begin all over.”
“Well, young man, what is it this time?” she said, turning to Jim as she entered the room.
“It’s just this, Dorothy. You see, I am going to take the position in New York and I must live here,” started Jim.
“Ah, Jim, you never told me anything about really taking a position. I just supposed that – well, I don’t quite know – but I didn’t think you really meant to do it,” interrupted Dorothy.
“I do, Dorothy, mean it. And I have made up my mind to take it and work, so hard that some day I can make a man out of myself like Dr. Sterling and some others I know,” replied Jim. “But to get down to the point why we called you, Aunt Betty thought you might help in finding a boarding place for me. You see, I must live here in the city, and it’s hard to find a good boarding place. Miss Ruth, last night, said something about her place. Do you know where it is?”
“No, Jim, I can’t say that I do, but I heard her say that it was down on lower Fifth avenue – way downtown, she said. I might call up Mr. Ludlow and find out right now, or you can wait till to-night, for I play at that concert at the Hippodrome this evening, you know.”
“Call him up now, dear,” suggested Aunt Betty from her corner. “Then you and Jim can take a walk there this afternoon. Alfy and I can find something to amuse ourselves with. We could take one of those stages and ride up Fifth avenue on it. It’s a fine ride on a nice day like this.”
“Very well,” answered Dorothy, immediately going to the telephone, and acting on her aunt’s suggestion.
Jim and Aunt Betty sat quietly by till she had finished her conversation at the telephone.
“Mr. Ludlow says that Ruth lives on Fifth avenue, near Washington square, and it’s a very large, old-fashioned boarding house run by an elderly southern lady, who, being in very adverse circumstances, had to take hold and do something. He said that the rooms were fairly large, the meals first rate and the charges moderate, and that we had better see her at once because she has usually a pretty full house,” added Dorothy.
“Why not start at once, dear,” replied Aunt Betty. “Then you can come home and practice this afternoon, and as Alfy and I will be out there will be nothing to distract you.”
“Yes, let’s go now, Dorothy, if you can spare the time to go with me,” pleaded Jim. “Where is it near?”
“He says it is near Ninth street,” replied Dorothy. “All right, Jim, I will be ready in a few minutes. Oh dear,” she sighed to herself, “poor Frau will not get her letter very soon, I guess. Well, I can write this afternoon, after I practice, and I will make the letter extra long so as to make up for the time I have taken to write her.”
“Good-bye, Aunt Betty,” called Dorothy a short time later.
“Good-bye, Aunt Betty,” echoed Jim. “We’ll be back soon.”
With that the two disappeared and Aunt Betty from her corner sighed as she thought of what a charming pair the pretty Dorothy and the tall youth made.
“Shall we ride?” asked Jim.
“No. Let’s walk, it is not far, only a few blocks,” said Dorothy.
“That’s just what I wanted to do,” replied Jim, “only I was most afraid you would not care to. We haven’t had a good walk in a long time.”
They walked on silently as the streets were so crowded and there was lots to see, and the crossings required much attention, these two not being used to the busy streets of New York, where one has to look in all directions at once and keep moving lively to avoid being run into by the many automobiles or trucks that are hurrying along.
Finally Dorothy, observing the number on the houses, said: “Here we are, this is the house.”
Up the steps they ran and Jim gave the old-fashioned bell a vigorous pull. “Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,” vaguely sounded from somewhere within and presently a pleasant faced young girl with white cap and apron and dark dress, said in a low voice, “Whom do you wish to see?”
Jim answered, “Will you tell Miss Boothington that Miss Dorothy Calvert wishes to see her?”
Slowly they followed the neat maid into the old fashioned parlor and waited there for her to take the message to Ruth.
“Oh, Jim,” whispered Dorothy, very softly putting her hand on Jim’s arm. “Jim, if I were you I should love to stay here. It is more like a home, a real home than any place I have been in, in the big city.”
“Yes, it is. And it is so quiet and restful. I do hope there will be room for me here,” answered Jim.
Just then they heard foot-steps on the stairs and in a second Ruth’s cheery voice greeted them with a “Hello!” from the hall.
“Well, this is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you till to-night, Dorothy. Have I you to thank for bringing her to me?” she asked, smiling at Jim.
“Yes, I guess so,” replied Dorothy. “We came on business.”
“On business!” echoed Ruth.
“Yes, on business,” answered Jim. “It’s just this: You see I have taken a position in New York and I have to board here. We didn’t know of any place and Aunt Betty thought of something you had said the night before about boarding-house meals.”
“Yes,” continued Dorothy, “and I called Mr. Ludlow up and he recommended this place and we came right down here, and we have just fallen in love with the place at first sight. Haven’t we, Jim?”
“Wait. Let me see. You want to see Mrs. Quarren. She is out just now, but she is such a dear. I know! You must both stay to lunch. It is just eleven forty-five and we lunch here at twelve. You see so many of the boarders here do not come home at noon-time, they work too far to come back, so that there will be plenty of room. And then you can see how the table suits you. Mrs. Quarren is always in for meals. You see she is just a great dear mother to us all. I won’t know what to do without her.”
“I will lend you Aunt Betty when you are with us,” volunteered Dorothy. “But we must let her know we are going to stay here for lunch.”
“I’ll telephone her if you will show me where the ’phone is,” spoke up Jim.
“Right this way, please,” said Ruth, leading Jim into the hall where he saw the little table and ’phone. “Come back to the parlor when you are through,” and Ruth went back to Dorothy.
“You are to play to-night, are you not?” she inquired.
“Yes, and are you to sing?” questioned Dorothy.
“Right after you play. We are each to do just one thing to-night. I am going to sing ‘Still vie de Nochte,’ or in English, ‘Still as the Night,’ you see it’s just a little German song. What are you to play?” asked Ruth.
“I thought I was to play two selections – Mr. Ludlow said so – ” started Dorothy.
“Yes, dear, you were,” interrupted Ruth, “but he changed his mind after I had coaxed him and he has consented to let me sing so we each can have one number then.”
“Well, then I will play that old medley, ‘Southern Airs.’ I like that best of all. It makes me think of home,” answered Dorothy.
“And I always can just fairly see old Bellevieu when you play that piece,” added Jim from the doorway. “Aunt Betty said it was satisfactory, and that she and Alfy would go out this afternoon and for you to come home soon and practice.”
Just then the luncheon bell sounded and the three went quickly down stairs. They were seated at a small table near the window. Ruth always sat there and as the other guests at that table were never present for luncheon, Dorothy and Jim could sit there too. So the three had the little table all to themselves.
Just as soon as she could, Mrs. Quarren came over to the table, for she had returned from her duties outside. Ruth presented Dorothy and Jim to her, and as she sat pleasantly chatting, Jim told her of his want. She said she would see him after dinner in the library.
“Well, Dorothy, you come to my room with me while Jim sees Mrs. Quarren in the library,” said Ruth, rising and carefully pushing her chair back under the table.
“You are very kind. I would like to see your room. You lead and I will follow,” answered Dorothy.
“Oh, the room is not much. You come too, Jim, and I will show you where the library is,” said Ruth, leading the way upstairs. “Right in there, Jim.”
Jim entered the library and the girls ascended to the floors above.
“I am going out this afternoon with a friend,” said Ruth. “I promised I would go shopping with her,” and she opened the door of her room.
The room was a large, sunny one with simple furnishings.
“I’ll sit here,” announced Dorothy, “till you are ready to go.”
“I will just hustle with my things and be ready in a moment,” replied Ruth, suiting her actions to her words.
In a very few minutes the girls were ready and slowly descended the stairs again to wait for Jim in the parlor.
“Well, here I am. Room engaged and all,” said a cheery voice from the hall which they knew as Jim’s.
“Where is it?” questioned Ruth.
“Yes, where?” echoed Dorothy.
“Where do you suppose?” mocked Jim. “Well, I will tell you. Ruth it is your room.”
“My room!” exclaimed the girl.
“Yes, your room,” laughed Jim. “I am to have it next Wednesday. Mrs. Quarren said you were to leave it Tuesday.”
“Tuesday!” interrupted Dorothy, in a very much surprised tone of voice.
“Yes, dear, Tuesday. Didn’t Mr. Ludlow tell you?” added Ruth. “Tuesday we go to Washington on the noon train.”
“Ah, is it so soon? I didn’t know it. It makes me feel so sad. I hate to leave New York now, just as I am becoming used to it,” wailed Dorothy. “Oh, I just must go back to the hotel. I have to practice and it is getting late.”
“Come on, Dorothy,” said Jim, rising and walking to the door.
“Good-bye till to-night,” said Dorothy.
“Good-bye, dear, till to-night,” answered Ruth.
With that Dorothy and Jim made their departure for home. The way back was rather quiet, for the news that the girls were to start so soon had made Jim sad. And Dorothy couldn’t help but feel the same way. When at last they had silently reached the hotel and had gone up to the rooms, Dorothy spoke.
“Jim, do you want to stay here and be my audience while I practice and tell me what you think of my playing?”
“Yes, indeed I do,” answered Jim, gladly grasping the opportunity to be near the girl, and when he had seated himself in a great chair added, “I’ll be more than audience, I’ll be newspaper reporter and a very exacting and critical one at that. And then, when you finish I will tell you what I would put in the paper about you and your playing.”
