So saying she commenced playing slowly at first, anon faster and faster, then again more slowly that beautiful composition, “A Medley of Southern Airs,” putting all her love and yearning for her own southern home into the effort. Jim from his chair by the window could picture each phase of the piece, and when she had finished with the beautiful sad strains of “Home, Sweet Home,” he could hardly control himself, and man that he was, he could not keep the tears from his eyes.

For a brief moment neither spoke. Dorothy laid down her violin and came over to him. Jim arose and took both her hands, saying softly, “Dorothy girl, it was wonderful, but it makes me so sad. I just can’t bear to think of parting from you.”

“Jim, dear, you too feel sad?” she questioned softly, but withdrawing her hands.

Jim let the little hands slowly drop but took her by the shoulders, looking eagerly into her eyes. “You will miss me?” he questioned, “really miss me?”

“Of course I will, dreadfully so,” she answered.

Then without a word of warning he drew her gently to him and kissed her full on the lips. For one brief moment they clung together, then Dorothy withdrew his arms.

“Jim, oh, Jim! what have you done?” she sobbed.

“Girl, I just couldn’t help it,” answered Jim, gently drawing her into his embrace again. “Dorothy, little Dorothy, didn’t you know before? Couldn’t you guess?”

“Jim, dear, I never thought of you that way, and it’s so new and strange. I can’t realize it all.” And with that Dorothy rushed away and into her own room.

CHAPTER VIII.
“AMERICA.”

Just before dinner Dorothy came slowly from her room into the sitting room where she found Jim all alone, seated in the same large chair by the window. She had dressed this evening with much care and wore a white dress with blue ribbons at her waist.

She had also fixed her hair differently and more in the prevailing fashion. The girls of New York she had noticed wore their hair “up,” and as Dorothy was eighteen, she thought she too must dress it like they did. So carefully this afternoon did she arrange it, with three little curls at her neck and a tiny curl just peeping out at each ear. It made her look a little older and very fascinating indeed. Decidedly Jim so thought, as he turned to look at her as she entered the room.

“Come here and sit down. I want to talk to you just a few minutes, dear,” he said, drawing up a chair close to his for her.

Dorothy obeyed, as some way she always was accustomed to obeying this boy, although he was really only five years older than she was. “What is it you want to say?” she asked, seating herself leisurely.

“It’s about what happened this afternoon,” Jim began, and hesitated, hardly knowing how to continue. Looking at Dorothy he thought that she too had changed since the afternoon; she seemed more fair, more grown up, as if she had become a full grown woman instead of a child.

“Dear, I am sorry for what I said and did. I can’t make any excuses, I just lost control. The thought of your going away maddened me. I can’t help loving you, caring for you. I have done that now for years. I didn’t mean to speak to you until I had made good. And now I have spoiled it all by my recklessness,” he added, bitterly.

Then quickly changing his tone of voice to a more cheerful one, he continued: “Dear, never mind, we can be the same old friends again, can’t we?”

“Yes, and no, Jim,” quietly responded Dorothy, who had already felt a complete change that before she didn’t realize and even now didn’t understand.

Jim seized her hands and asked hurriedly, “Could you love me? Could you? You don’t know how much I would give for just one little word of hope. Don’t leave me back here in New York, working, fighting, all by myself with no word of cheer. Answer me girl, answer me. Could you care, not as much as I do, now, but just a little?”

“Jim, I do, a little,” was all she could manage to say before she was seized eagerly in his arms again and having kisses showered upon her hair, cheeks and lips.

“Jim, Jim, you are behaving shamefully and mussing me all up,” she said, struggling to free herself, but she was held fast and stern tones pleaded, “I just can’t let you go now. I just can’t.”

“Jim, dear, you must or I won’t even love you a little,” she laughed.

“Well, if I must, I must,” he said, kissing her just once again. “My girl, my own girl,” he added.

“Jim, I haven’t promised you anything, and I just said I cared for you a little. I’d have to love you a lot before I could promise you anything. You mustn’t call me yours. If, when I come back from my trip, and that’s a long time from now, I do love you – ” added Dorothy.

“You will promise me then? You will? Oh girl, you make me so happy, so happy!” cried Jim. “I will work so hard all winter and save up so much. I have considerable saved up now. Then you will come to me, girl?”

“I said if I did love you then,” teased Dorothy, “and that’s if – ”

“You little tease,” interrupted Jim. “I will punish you.”

“No you won’t,” Dorothy added quickly. “And never, never say anything of the kind to me again, or even try to love me, or I’ll just never, never love you. I have my music to attend to and you mustn’t disturb my practice or even try to make me think of you when I should be thinking of it.”

“Very well,” acquiesced Jim, sadly, “it will be very hard though. I’ll promise if you will write me every day while you are away.”

“Every day!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Not every day. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“All you would have to say to me would be, ‘I love you,’ over and over again,” laughed Jim.

“But I can’t, cause maybe I don’t,” teased Dorothy, “but I’ll write sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” complained Jim, mournfully.

“Sometimes is better than never,” laughed the girl.

“Very well. I’ll hope that sometimes is very often or nearly every day,” said Jim. “Kiss me once more, then I won’t bother you again.” Then folding her to him he kissed that dear, dear face and thought of the many times he used to blush and show all kinds of discomfort when Dorothy kissed him of her own free will, and then he remembered Gerald Beck’s comments that any fellow would go a long, long way to kiss Dorothy. And thinking of the difference now, he drew her closer as she was drawing away, and turning her head back, kissed her on the brow and then she slowly turned and walked to the table, picking up her violin and played.

While she was playing Aunt Betty and Alfy came in. They sat down quietly so as not to disturb her. Dorothy finished her piece and then came over and kissed her aunt, saying, “Dear Aunt Betty, have you and Alfy enjoyed yourselves?”

“Oh, yes indeed, dear. We took a stage up to Ninety-sixth street, through to Riverside Drive and then back again,” answered Aunt Betty.

“And what did you think of it, Alfy?” asked Jim, turning to the girl.

“I just couldn’t keep my eyes off the crowds of people walking up and down Fifth avenue, all of them dressed up as if they were going to church, and Aunt Betty said they were all going to tea at the hotels – afternoon tea – and men too. Why, I saw a lot of men and they were all dressed up too, and had on some of those yellow gloves and carried canes. And all the ladies carried silver chain purses or bags. Ah,” and Alfy heaved a great sigh, “I wish I had a silver bag; they make you look so dressed up. Then there were so many, many stores and such nice things to buy in all of them. I would like to be rich just for one day and then I could buy all I wanted. I would get – oh, I just couldn’t tell you all I would get. I saw so many things I just wanted so bad.”

And I guess Alfy would have continued indefinitely if the telephone bell had not interrupted her.

Dorothy answered the call and turning to Aunt Betty, said, “Aunt Betty, dear, Ruth wants to know if I can take dinner with her and Mr. Ludlow at the Hotel Astor at six o’clock, so we can go to the Hippodrome real early and find out our places before the concert starts.”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” answered Aunt Betty.

So Dorothy returned to the telephone and continued her conversation with Ruth and when finished hung up the receiver and turned again to Aunt Betty, saying, “Ruth said for me to hurry and dress and they – Ruth and Mr. Ludlow – would call for me – about six o’clock. What shall I wear?”

“The little pink dress, dear; that is quite pretty and most appropriate for the occasion,” answered Aunt Betty. “I am tired, so Alfy will help you. Besides, I want to talk to Jim.”

“Oh, Aunt Betty,” interrupted Dorothy. “I forgot to tell you that this afternoon while we were at Ruth’s, we learned of the fact that we start on our trip on Tuesday – the noon train for Washington. Jim can tell you all the rest while I dress.”

“And did you get a room there where Ruth is, Jim?” questioned Aunt Betty. Whereat Jim told of his arrangements, discussing the matter till Dorothy returned.

“Take your violin, dear, and hurry. The ’phone is ringing now and I guess that is them. Yes, it is,” said Aunt Betty, answering the call.

“Good-bye, all, for just a little while. You all be early,” called Dorothy, as she left the room.

After a remarkably fine dinner at the Hotel Astor, which the girls enjoyed immensely, they all drove to the Hippodrome. Mr. Ludlow led the girls inside and showed them where they were to sit while they waited for their turn to play or sing. There were many, many people in a large room and Mr. Ludlow told them they were the artists and their friends, but that presently all that were to take part would meet in the room where the girls were. He left them there for a few minutes and went away to find out if they had been given their places on the list. He found their numbers were five and six, Ruth being five. He came back, told the girls this and then left them to themselves till their turns came. They sat still, not saying much but enjoying all the people about them, – some of them seemed to them so queer.

Finally it was Ruth’s turn to sing. Slowly she got up, walked to the entrance and on the stage. She rendered her simple song, “Still vie die Nochte” very well, and amid a volley of applause, left the stage. She could not give an encore so she simply walked to the front again and bowed.

Dorothy, listening, had heard all and was preparing for her task, tuning her violin. Just then Ruth, returning, whispered in her ear, “Good luck,” as she passed her.

Dorothy turned and smiled at her new friend, and then proceeded forward to the stage, violin in hand. One brief glimpse she caught of the crowded house, and she thought she had never seen so many, many people before.

The Hippodrome is very large, the stage being one of the largest in the world, and the seating capacity being many thousands. So you see there were a great number of people there. The house was over-crowded, as naturally every one was interested in the home for blind babies, and the talent of the evening had called forth a very large attendance.

Slowly Dorothy raised her violin and started the initial strain of the melody. The beautiful “Southern Airs” appealed to many, as there were a large number of southerners present that night. Played by the beautiful girl, it made the old go back in memory to days that were the happiest in their lives. They longed for the South; the large plantations, the beautiful gardens, the spacious, old, rambling houses, the darkies playing on their violins in the moonlight, the cabins with the little pickaninies disporting in front – all of these and more dreams floated vividly before them, inspired by the wonderful music.

Then softly, very softly the music fell from the violin, the sweet strains of “Dixie,” when suddenly a piercing shriek, another, still another, rent the air. People turned pale. Some started to rise from their seats. A woman or two fainted.

Then another and more awful shriek, which sounded as if some one was being murdered. The people in their seats hesitated! Was it fire? Was someone being robbed, or murdered, or what? In a single second a great restlessness took possession of them all, tending to make of the crowd an angry mob, and panic a possible result.

Dorothy from her place on the stage for a moment was rooted immovable to the spot. She looked in the direction from which the screams came and saw a man throw up his hands and shriek again. It was the man who played the trombone in the orchestra. He threw his instrument in the air and turned as white as chalk, then stiffened out and began to froth at the mouth.

In a moment she knew that the man had convulsions. She had somewhere seen someone in a similar state. The orchestra had suddenly stopped playing. Out in the audience she saw a sight that terrified her more than she would admit to herself. One thought raced through her brain. She, she alone might – nay must – prevent a panic; people were becoming more excited every moment.

Instinct of some sort made her grasp her violin and raise it. Then she knew what to do. Without accompaniment, in clear, sweet tones she played “America.” Slowly the people rose, rose to pay their respects to their national hymn, patriotism immediately conquering all fear. While she played the poor trombone player was carried out to receive medical attention. All through the three verses of the hymn Dorothy held the audience, and then as she finished and the curtain fell, the house broke out in thunderous applause, for now they realized what this girl had done, what possibilities she had saved them from. So insistent was the applause that Dorothy had to stop in front of the curtain again and again.

CHAPTER IX.
A DREAD CALL IN THE NIGHT

The next day Dorothy was ill as the result of the strain of the previous evening, and when Mr. Ludlow and Ruth called they found her resting on the couch in the living room. Ruth was eager to talk of the happenings of the night before, but Mr. Ludlow restrained her, saying:

“Dorothy, I am very proud of you, and I want to thank you for what you did last night. The morning papers are full of the news of the events of last night, and now every place you go you will be doubly welcomed and given hearty receptions. It was a very good thing for us as it has given you advance press notices, which are superior and more convincing than anything I could put in for you. You will probably get all kinds of letters from people wanting you to play at private concerts, but keep them, my dear, as sometimes they come in very handy, and you never can tell when you can use them.

“But for the present you must rest, that is, to-day and to-morrow. Tuesday we start on the noon train for Washington, so be prepared and on time. Ruth has much packing to do likewise, so we will go now and leave you to yourself.”

“Oh, can’t I stay and talk?” interrupted Ruth eagerly. “There are so many things I want to talk to Dorothy about.”

“No. I guess you had better go home and pack up. You know I want you to go to church to-night. There is to be a musical service at St. Bartholomew’s that I want you to hear,” added Mr. Ludlow.

“Can’t we all go?” questioned Ruth.

“I think Dorothy is better off home, here,” rejoined Aunt Betty. “She had better stay here and rest, just for to-day. Then you see, she has to pack and shop a little to-morrow.”

“I would like to go,” Alfy chimed in. “I just love church music, it is so grand, so very impressive and kind of awe inspiring.”

“All right,” answered Mr. Ludlow, “suppose you do. You can bring Jim with you, if he would care to come.”

“I know I should enjoy the services very much,” responded Jim, not very enthusiastically, but so long as he couldn’t be with Dorothy he could sit there and think of her, and Alfy was so anxious to go it would be unkind to refuse.

“Well, you two meet us there,” said Mr. Ludlow, and turning to Ruth, “Come along, my dear.”

“Good-bye, all,” said Ruth, and they departed.

Dorothy and Aunt Betty stayed home as arranged, while Jim and Alfy attended church, returning to the hotel just as Aunt Betty and Dorothy were about to retire.

“Oh, Dorothy,” exclaimed Alfy, eagerly, “you ought to have gone, you missed such a lot. The music was so beautiful. I just know that an organ has locked up in those big pipes the finest music in the world. It’s so solemn and impressive it most made me cry.”

“But you forget the wonderful singing,” interrupted Jim. “They had a full choir, and the voices of so many young boys sounded like the voices of angels. And as they played the recessional and marched out, the singing grew softer and softer, and sounded as if it were coming from Heaven indeed.”

Dorothy did not say anything at this, but looked at Jim earnestly.

“I am glad you enjoyed the services. Yes, the Episcopal services, I do think, are the most impressive of all denominations,” said Aunt Betty.

“Did you see Ruth and Mr. Ludlow?” asked Dorothy, turning to Alfy. She was afraid to look at Jim for fear of seeing something in his eyes she felt she had no right at that time to see.

“Yes, we met them in time, and they both wished to be remembered to you and Aunt Betty, and hoped you were feeling rested now,” answered Alfy.

“Come, let’s go to bed now, dears,” said Aunt Betty. “We all have to do a lot to-morrow and must get up real early.” With that they all retired to rest till the morrow. That at least was their expectation, but soon there was to materialize a different aspect to affairs. New York, even at night, is a noisy place, so it is little wonder that when the cries of “Fire,” “Fire,” rent the air, few heard and the few who did hear paid not much attention.

But when someone knocked on Mrs. Calvert’s door with a terrific thud, and yelled, “Fire! Fire! All out! Use stairs to the left!” all three, Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Alfy, were out of their beds with unhesitating promptness, and remarkably scared at that.

“Fire! Fire!” rang through the air, and they could hear the bell-boys thump, thump, thump on each door.

“Put on your slippers and kimona and come at once!” commanded Aunt Betty, suiting actions to her words. “Come, Alfy, Dorothy, this way out!”

Very quickly, indeed, the girls, too bewildered to do much else but obey orders, followed close by, Alfy picking up her hat and a few other articles as she ran through her room.

“This way, ladies,” called the bell-boy. “This way. No danger, only it’s best to get out. Use this stair.”

Aunt Betty and the girls quickly gained the stairs, and ran down as fast as they could, one after the other. On reaching the main floor they heard the call of another attendant. “All step outside and across the street.” So they followed quietly on and outside till they stood on the opposite side of the street.

There were assembled a couple of hundred people, mainly guests of the hotel, most of them more or less asleep and very scantily clothed in garments hastily assumed. Some of the women and children were sobbing, and most of them shivering. Looking up at the hotel, Dorothy tried to locate just where the fire was. She finally discovered a little flame and smoke curling up from the wing of the hotel, not where their rooms were, but far above, near the top floors. Quickly she ran her eye down and counted the floors, finding that the fire was on the tenth and eleventh floors.

Suddenly it came to her that her priceless violin, her precious Cremona, was back there in their rooms on the seventh floor. Suddenly she slipped away from Aunt Betty and started toward the building. Swiftly she made her way through the crowd, and very quietly passed the firemen and bell-boys who stood about the entrance to the burning building. In a second she was past them, and on her way up the long stairs as she knew that the elevators were not running, and would not take her up if they were. She felt sure that she could get to the room and return with safety without being missed.

In the meantime, Jim, who had not awakened at the first alarm, almost frantic at not being able to discover Aunt Betty and the girls, was wandering in and out of the crowd, scanning the faces of everyone very carefully, trying vainly to find the ones he loved best in all this wide, wide world. Suddenly a hand grasped his arm and a voice said, “Jim, Jim, we have been looking for you. Where have you been?” and Jim turned and saw it was Aunt Betty that spoke.

“What do you think of the fire?” she continued. “Do you think it is going to be real serious?”

“No. But one can hardly tell. I should judge that with the capable fire service that New York has, so fully equipped and strictly up-to-date, that they could get it under entire control with possible danger to only a couple of floors,” answered Jim.

“Then, maybe our floor will not be burned at all?” inquired Alfy.

“I hope not,” answered Aunt Betty.

Just then Jim turned to look at the girl, for she stood directly in back of Aunt Betty, and catching sight of her he laughed outright. “Why, Alfy, what have you there?” he exclaimed.

A funny sight, indeed, was Alfy, her little bedroom slippers of red just peeping out from under her bright pink kimona which she had slipped on over her night dress, and a bright red hat in her hand.

“My hat,” answered Alfy. “My best new hat. I saw it lying on the table so I picked it up as I passed. I couldn’t bear to think of losing it. It’s my favorite color and here it is.” She placed the hat on her head and laughed as she did so. Aunt Betty turned and laughed, too, and so did many of the people around them.

The girl looked funny indeed with the kimona and the hat. Her long, abundant growth of hair was braided down her back in two huge braids tied at the ends with blue hair ribbons which had long been discarded from day use. The red hat topping all looked as if the fire itself was there in their midst.

“Great heavens!” exclaimed Aunt Betty, suddenly. “Where is Dorothy? Where is she?” Whereat faintness overcame her, and she dropped helpless upon the sidewalk. Jim caught and held her in his young strong arms, and carried her over to a chair that had been brought out of the hotel. Here he put her in the care of a young matron, who had kindly offered assistance, and was aiding Alfy. Being sure that she was safe and well cared for, he quickly began to look for Dorothy. In a few seconds he ran through the crowd, his heart sinking, as he could not locate her anywhere.

Then he thought she might have gone back to the burning building. The thought of her, the girl he loved, up there in that dangerous place nearly drove him frantic. Quickly he rushed past the fire lines, yelling to the policemen who would have delayed him perhaps, when every moment was precious. He must find her. His Dorothy must be saved.

“There is someone in there I must save!” he shouted to those he passed.

He hurried on and ran into the building. First he went toward the elevator, but seeing no one there, turned and ran for the stairs. Quickly he mounted them quickly – indeed he ran! Up those seven long flights of stairs he went with an energy he never called forth before. As he neared their floor he saw that the fire had in some few places broken through to the seventh floor, and realized that he could go no higher, and had but a few moments more.

“Dorothy! Dorothy!” he called out. He thought he heard a very faint answer from her and rushed madly onward. He could not see, and was choked by the thickening smoke. Finding his way into the bath room he opened the window, then he picked up two large towels and hastily wet them with cold water. One of those he wrapped about his head, and then he called again. She answered faintly, and then he found the girl, her precious violin in her hands. She choked with the smoke, and was all out of breath from her long race up the many flights of stairs.

“Jim,” she sobbed. “I just had to get this. I couldn’t leave my violin up here,” and fell into his arms.

“Come girl,” said Jim, sternly. “Here, put this around your face, so,” and he carefully adjusted the wet towel he had provided for the purpose.

“Now, follow me, and give me your hand.”

Just outside the doors the smoke was very dense.

“Lay down and creep!” ordered Jim, “and give me your violin.”

He took the violin and forced Dorothy down and beside him so that their heads would be close to the floor. As you doubtless know, smoke rises, and the place freest from smoke would be the lowest possible one. Thus they crept until they reached the stair.

“Stand up, now,” commanded Jim, “and take the violin again.” Then he took her in his arms and rapidly made his way down, till they had passed the zone of danger. Here for one brief moment he held the girl in his arms, murmuring lowly, “Thank God, darling, you are safe now.”

Then they quickly made their way to the place where he had left Aunt Betty and Alfy.

There sat Mrs. Calvert, pale but calm. On seeing her, Dorothy rushed into her aunt’s arms, and explained, “Dear Aunt Betty, I just went back after my violin. I couldn’t let it stay in there and get burned. And Jim came after me and saved me.”

“Dear, dear child, don’t you know how foolish that was to do? Why you are far more precious to me than any violin, no matter how priceless it may be.”

Just then they heard a voice calling the crowd to attention. It was the manager of the hotel, making an announcement. He told the people that while the firemen had the fire well in control, it was considered safest for none of the guests to return to their rooms until the morning, when it would be entirely safe. The Hotel Breslin, he informed them, would accommodate them for the night, and was but a few doors away.

The people began to follow his instructions at once, and the clerks at the Hotel Breslin were soon very busy apportioning rooms to them. All were very shortly trying to overcome their worries sufficiently to enable them to regain the sleep they had lost.

The fire had been caused by the carelessness of some of the servants of the hotel in dropping lighted matches on the floor, the servants’ apartments being in the top of the building. It was therefore hoped that little damage had been done to the property of the guests.