rehand that the
fair-haired Swedish songstress would meet all expectations; and she
passed beyond it.

Ben had been caught by the enthusiasm, and squandered his savings on a
ticket. He and Jim had been in the crowd around the hotel, that first
night when the New York musical society had serenaded her, and she had
bowed from the old stone balcony to the admiring crowds.

"There isn't any word to express it," declared Ben, at the
breakfast-table the next morning. "Joe, you must hear her, and
Hanny--all of you. Never mind the cost."

"Ben, you have lost your senses," said his mother, with a touch of her
old sharpness. "As if we were all millionaires! And I have heard people
sing before."

"Not anything like that. You can't imagine such melody. And the
enthusiasm of the crowd is worth something!"

The little girl looked up wistfully. She was beginning to understand the
value of money.

"Yes," returned Joe; "Hanny must hear her. I wouldn't have her miss it
for anything. But the tickets won't be so high after a little."

They dropped to regular prices, but that was high for the times; and the
rush continued unabated. New York broke out in a Jenny Lind furore.
There were gloves, and hats, and shawls, and gowns, beautiful little
tables, and consoles, and furniture of all sorts that bore her name. The
bakers made Jenny Lind cake. What a time there was! Enthusiastic adorers
took her carriage from its shafts, and dragged it from Castle Garden to
the hotel. Was New York old in those days? Rather, it was the glowing,
fervid impetuosity of early youth.

And the serenade, when Broadway was jammed for blocks, and lighted by
torches in the street, and illuminations in the houses and stores. There
was a wonderful cornetist, Koenig, who could have won another Eurydice
from the shades with his playing. Out on the balcony he stood and moved
the crowd with his melody. Then she came out beside him, and, in the
hush, a thousand times more appreciative than the wildest applause, the
magnificent voice sang to its large, free audience, "Home, Sweet Home,"
as no one will ever hear it sung again. That alone would be fame enough
for any writer of song!

The furore did not abate. But they must all go,--Stephen and Dolly,
Margaret and her husband, Joe and the little girl, and her father.

"It is nonsense for an old fellow like me," he declared, half
humourously.

"But I shall like it so much better, and then we can talk it over
afterwar