p in from the plays,
the master of ceremonies opened proceedings by saying that "The free
concert would now begin, and he hoped that all present, ladies included,
would act like gentlemen, and not forget the waiter. Mr. Meriweather
will now favour us with the latest coon song, entitled 'Come back to yo'
Baby, Honey.'"

There was a patter of applause, and a young negro came forward, and in a
strident, music-hall voice, sung or rather recited with many gestures
the ditty. He could n't have been much older than Joe, but already his
face was hard with dissipation and foul knowledge. He gave the song
with all the rank suggestiveness that could be put into it. Joe looked
upon him as a hero. He was followed by a little, brown-skinned fellow
with an immature Vandyke beard and a lisp. He sung his own composition
and was funny; how much funnier than he himself knew or intended, may
not even be hinted at. Then, while an instrumentalist, who seemed to
have a grudge against the piano, was hammering out the opening bars of a
march, Joe's attention was attracted by a woman entering the room, and
from that moment he heard no more of the concert. Even when the master
of ceremonies announced with an air that, by special request, he himself
would sing "Answer,"--the request was his own,--he did not draw the
attention of the boy away from the yellow-skinned divinity who sat at a
near table, drinking whiskey straight.

She was a small girl, with fluffy dark hair and good features. A tiny
foot peeped out from beneath her rattling silk skirts. She was a
good-looking young woman and daintily made, though her face was no
longer youthful, and one might have wished that with her complexion she
had not run to silk waists in magenta.

Joe, however, saw no fault in her. She was altogether lovely to him, and
his delight was the more poignant as he recognised in her one of the
girls he had seen on the stage a couple of weeks ago. That being true,
nothing could keep her from being glorious in his eyes,--not even the
grease-paint which adhered in unneat patches to her face, nor her taste
for whiskey in its unreformed state. He gazed at her in ecstasy until
Thomas, turning to see what had attracted him, said with a laugh, "Oh,
it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"

Again the young fellow was dumb. Just then Hattie also noticed his
intent look, and nodded and beckoned to Thomas.

"Come on," he said, rising.

"Oh, she did n't ask for me," cried