a long line of
humanity that curved itself back and forth on the wide expanse of steps
before Symphony Hall and then stretched itself far up the Avenue.

"Why, what--" she began under her breath; then suddenly she understood.
It was Friday. A world-famous pianist was to play with the Symphony
Orchestra that afternoon. This must be the line of patient waiters for
the twenty-five-cent balcony seats that Mr. Arkwright had told about.
With sympathetic, interested eyes, then, Billy stepped one side to watch
the line, for a moment.

Almost at once two girls brushed by her, and one was saying:

"What a shame!--and after all our struggles to get here! If only we
hadn't lost that other train!"

"We're too late--you no need to hurry!" the other wailed shrilly to a
third girl who was hastening toward them. "The line is 'way beyond
the Children's Hospital and around the corner now--and the ones there
_never_ get in!"

At the look of tragic disappointment that crossed the third girl's face,
Billy's heart ached. Her first impulse, of course, was to pull her
own symphony ticket from her muff and hurry forward with a "Here, take
mine!" But that _would_ hardly do, she knew--though she would like to
see Aunt Hannah's aghast face if this girl in the red sweater and white
tam-o'-shanter should suddenly emerge from among the sumptuous satins
and furs and plumes that afternoon and claim the adjacent orchestra
chair. But it was out of the question, of course. There was only one
seat, and there were three girls, besides all those others. With a sigh,
then, Billy turned her eyes back to those others--those many others that
made up the long line stretching its weary length up the Avenue.

There were more women than men, yet the men were there: jolly young men
who were plainly students; older men whose refined faces and threadbare
overcoats hinted at cultured minds and starved bodies; other men who
showed no hollows in their cheeks nor near-holes in their garments. It
seemed to Billy that women of almost all sorts were there, young, old,
and middle-aged; students in tailored suits, widows in crape and veil;
girls that were members of a merry party, women that were plainly
forlorn and alone.

Some in the line shuffled restlessly; some stood rigidly quiet. One had
brought a camp stool; many were seated on the steps. Beyond, where the
line passed an open lot, a wooden fence afforded a convenient prop. One
read a book, another a paper. Three