at her eagerness.

And true to his word, he stopped her at the wide doorway of the
concert hall, fully five minutes before the hour, and they found
themselves joining the slow stream of men and women and children
that was pouring up the wide, dingy stairway. Everyone was trying,
in all good humor, to press ahead of everyone else, inspired with
the sudden agonizing conviction that in the next two minutes every
desirable seat would certainly be gone. Even Sidney, familiar as she
was with every grand opera house in the world, felt the infection,
and asked rather nervously if any of the seats were reserved.

"Don't worry; we'll get seats," said the imperturbable Barry, and
several children in their neighborhood laughed out in sudden
exquisite relief.

Seats indeed there were, although the front rows were filling fast,
and all the aisle-chairs were taken by squirming, restless small
children. Mrs. Burgoyne sat down, and studied the hall with
delighted eyes. It was ordinarily only a shabby, enormous, high-
ceiled room, filled with rows of chairs, and with an elevated stage
at the far end. But, like all Santa Paloma, it was in holiday trim
to-night. All the windows--wide open to the summer darkness--were
framed in bunting and drooping flowers, and on the stage were potted
palms and crossed flags. Great masses of bamboo and California ferns
were tied with red, white and blue streamers between the windows,
and, beside these decorations, which were new for the occasion, were
purple and yellow banners, left from the night of the Native Sons'
Grand Ball and Reception, a month ago, and, arched above the stage
the single word "Welcome" in letters two feet high, which dated back