pompadours, and carefully
polished shoes and outrageous cravats--so many silky, filleted little
heads, and innocent young bosoms half-hidden by all sorts of dainty
little conspiracies of lace and lawn. Youth, enchanting, self-absorbed,
important, had coolly taken possession of the hall, as it does of
everything, for its own happy plans, and something of the gossamer
beauty of it seemed to be clouding older and wiser eyes to-night.
Sidney found her eyes resting upon Barry's big, shapely hand, as he
leaned forward, deep in conversation with Dr. Brown, in the chair
ahead, and she was conscious that she wanted to sit back and shut her
eyes, and draw a deep breath of sheer irrational happiness because this
WAS Barry next to her, and that he liked to be there.

Presently the hall thrilled to see two modest-looking and obviously
embarrassed men come out to seat themselves in the half-circle of
chairs that lined the stage, and a moment later applause broke out for
the Mayor and his wife, and the members of the Flower Parade Committee
of Arrangements, and for the nondescript persons who invariably fill in
such a group, and for the kindly, smiling Governor, and the ladies of
his party, and for the Willard Whites, who, with the easiest manners in
the world, were in actual conversation with the great people as they
came upon the stage.

At the sight of them, Mrs. Carew, still vigorously clapping, leaned
over to say to Mrs. Burgoyne:

"Look at Clara White! And we were wondering why they didn't come in!
Wouldn't she make you TIRED!"

"You might kiss her hand, when you go up to get your prize, Mrs.
Burgoyne," suggested Barry, and a general giggle went the rounds.

"If I get a prize," said Sidney, in alarm, "you've got to go up, I
couldn't!"

"We'll see--" Barry began, his voice drowned by the opening crash of
the band.

There followed what the three papers of Santa Paloma were unanimous the
next day in describing as the most brilliant and enjoyable concert ever
given in Santa Paloma. It was received with immense enthusiasm,
entirely unaffected by the fact that everyone present had heard Miss
Emelie Jeanne Foster sing "Twickenham Ferry" before, with "Dawn" as an
encore, and was familiar also with the selections of the Stringed
Instrument Club, and had listened to young Doctor Perry's impassioned
tenor many times. As for George O'Connor, with his irresistible
laughing song, and the song about the train that went to Morro to-da