"Dorothy and Alfy," said Aunt Betty, "in those large houses live the very rich of New York."

"Oh, I wouldn't live in a house like that," said Alfy, "if I was rich.

I couldn't, I just could never be happy in one like that," pointing to a large gray stone mansion. "It hasn't any garden and windows only in the front, and looks like a pile of boxes, one on top of the other."

"Don't the people in New York care for gardens, aunty dear?"

questioned Dorothy.

"Yes. Yes, indeed, dear. But these are only their winter homes,"

laughed Aunt Betty. "They have summer homes in the country where they have very beautiful gardens. They only spend a few months here in these houses each winter."

"Well, I would rather have a real home for all the time," said practical Jim. "A real home, like Bellevieu."

"Dear, dear old Bellevieu, I wouldn't exchange it either for all of these places," whispered Dorothy. "And after this trip is over, and I have made a lot of money, we will all go back there again, and I will build that new sun-parlor Aunt Betty has so long wanted."

Aunt Betty sighed, for she and she only knew how badly off was the poor old estate. The mortgage that must be paid and the repairs and other things that were needed. She hoped that Dorothy's trip would be a success, and that she could pay off the mortgage at last.

Then answering Dorothy, she said, "Dear, dear little girl, you are always trying to think of something pleasant for someone else. Never mind your old Aunt Betty, dear."

"But I do," whispered Dorothy in her ear, "because I love you more than anyone else in the world."

"Yes, dear, maybe now you do," rejoined Aunt Betty, "but some day, some day wait and see."

They eagerly looked at the beautiful homes, the large and handsome hotels and most of all the happy throng of people who filled the streets, remarking that they had never before seen quite so many people, each hurrying along apparently to do his or her special duty.

From Fifth avenue they went up Riverside Drive, around Grant's Tomb.

Then as the limit of time they had arranged for was nearly up they told the chauffeur to drive home, all happy and full of thoughts of the new things they had seen.

"Well, what next, Dorothy girl?" exclaimed Aunt Betty.

"Why, I don't quite know. Let me see--just what day is this?" said Dorothy to herself. "It's--it's--oh, yes, it's Friday! Oh, oh! Why we must all hurry, hurry, hurry--dress right at once."

"Dorothy, child, what ails you?" laughed Aunt Betty. "Talking away so fast and all to yourself. Come now, tell me what you want us to dress for?"

"Why, aunty, I had most forgotten it. It's Friday, and we promised--I mean I promised--but I forgot all about it," continued Dorothy.

Just then Alfy interrupted. "Dorothy I am most dead with curiosity; tell us quick, please."

"Well," rejoined Dorothy, "it's just this. You see, I promised--"

"You said all that before," interrupted Alfy again.

"Be still, Alfy, or I just won't tell," scolded Dorothy. "Mr. Ludlow is coming here at eight o'clock to take us all to the opera. Miss Boothington, Ruth, is going also. He told me to tell you all, and I just guess I must have since then forgotten. I don't see how I did, but I just did. Oh, aunty, it's a box Mr. Ludlow has and we must dress all up 'cause all the millionaires of New York go to the opera."

"Dorothy dear, whatever made you forget?" asked Aunt Betty.

"Guess 'cause she is doing and seeing so much she has lost track of the days. Isn't that so?" chimed in Alfy.

"That doesn't excuse my little girl," remarked Aunt Betty, and turning to Dorothy, "What is it we are going to hear, dearest?"

"I think Mr. Ludlow said 'Koenigskinder'," answered Dorothy. "I am not sure but that's what I think he said."

"Ah, yes," said Aunt Betty, "that is a comparatively new opera and Miss Geraldine Farrar sings the princ.i.p.al part in it. She plays the part of the goose-girl. Well, I guess we had better hurry. We must dress and have dinner before Mr. Ludlow gets here for us."

"Can I wear that new pink dress, Aunty?" called Dorothy.

"Why, dear, I would keep that one for one of your concerts, and if I were you I would wear the little white one with the blue ribbons, and tell Alfy she might wear the white dress Miss Lenox made for her before we left Baltimore," said Aunt Betty.

"All right," called back Dorothy.

It didn't take the girls long to get dressed, and when they were finished they appeared in the sitting room. Both Jim and Aunt Betty declared that there weren't two finer girls in all New York City. And Jim added under his breath, "In all the world," thinking only of Dorothy then.

Down they went for dinner, and so anxious were they that they should not be late that the meal was pa.s.sed over as quickly and quietly as possible.

They had just reached their rooms when Mr. Ludlow was announced, and gathering up their wraps and long white gloves--for Alfy thought more of these white gloves than anything else she owned just then--they went forth to meet Mr. Ludlow.

"Well, well," said Mr. Ludlow, who was standing beside Ruth in the lobby, "all here and all ready. I do wish you would set the same example of promptness for Ruth. She is always, always late."

"Well," replied Ruth, "somehow I always try but just can't seem to get dressed in time. I didn't keep you waiting very long to-day, did I?"

"Well, dear, that is because I said that the longer you kept me waiting, the less you could have for dinner," laughed Mr. Ludlow.

"Maybe that is why, because I do get so tired of boarding house meals," rejoined Ruth, and, turning to Dorothy, "Come dear, the auto is all ready and we are not so very early."

The others followed them and soon they reached the Metropolitan Opera House, and after pa.s.sing through the crowded lobby, entered the foyer.

It was quite dark, and very quietly they followed Mr. Ludlow, whose box was on the right hand side, well toward the stage.

They were presently all seated, but before they had time to talk or look around much the music began. And such music. Dorothy was oblivious to all else as she followed the score. For memory's convenience she wrote out the plot of the opera, the next day, and here is a copy from her diary:

The Goose-Girl lives in the hills which look down in the town of h.e.l.labrunn. Around her stray her geese. She lies on the green gra.s.s, beneath the branches of a shady linden-tree. Near her is the hut which she inhabits with an old cruel Witch. Behind her stretch wild woods and lonely mountains. She sings and feeds her flock. The Witch appears, scolding and berating the girl, whom she orders to prepare a magic pasty which will kill whoever eats of it. The Goose-Girl begs the Witch to let her go into the world of men. But she implores in vain.

Out of the woods, and from the hills, a youth comes roving.

He seems poor. But by his side there hangs a sword and in his hand he holds a bundle. He is the King's Son, though the Goose-Girl does not know it. And in the bundle is a royal crown.

The King's Son tells the Goose-Girl of his wanderings. He has left his home, and the King's service, to be free. The Goose-Girl asks him what a King may be. He answers her, marvelling at her beauty and her ignorance. She longs to follow him. He falls in love with her, and asks her to go maying with him, through the summer land. He kisses her; and then a gust of wind blows the girl's wreath away. The King's Son picks up the wreath and hides it near his heart. In exchange for it he offers her his crown. The sweethearts are about to run off together when a wild wind alarms them and the Goose-Girl finds her feet glued to the ground. Thinking she is afraid to roam with him the King's Son tosses his crown into the gra.s.s, tells the girl that she is unworthy to be a King's mate and leaves her, vowing she shall never see him more till a star has fallen into a fair lily which is blooming near.

The Goose-Girl is still sighing for her lover, when the Witch returns, abuses her for having wasted her time on a man and weaves a magic spell to prevent her escape.

A Fiddler enters, singing a strange song. He is followed by two citizens of h.e.l.labrunn, a Woodcutter and a Broom (or besom) maker, who have been sent to ask the Witch where they can find the son of the King, who is just dead. They are in mortal fear of the old woman. But the Fiddler scoffs at her and all her arts. The Fiddler, acting as their mouthpiece, says that the people of h.e.l.labrunn are dying to have a King or a Queen to rule over them. The Witch replies that the first person, rich or in rags, who enters the town gate next day at noon should be enthroned. The Woodcutter and Broom-maker go back to h.e.l.labrunn. But the Fiddler lingers, suspecting that the Goose-Girl is in the hut. Soon she appears and confides her sorrows to the Fiddler, who a.s.sures her she shall wed the King's Son. The Witch, however, jeers at the thought and tells the Fiddler that the girl is the child of a hangman's daughter. In spite of all, the Goose-Girl plucks up heart, for she feels that her soul is royal and she knows that she will not shame her kingly lover. She prays to her dead father and mother for help. And as she kneels, a shooting star falls into the lily. The Goose-Girl runs off into the woods with her flock, to join her sweetheart, and this ends the first act.

In the second act the town of h.e.l.labrunn is in a turmoil of excitement, awaiting the new ruler. Near the town-gate is an inn. The Innkeeper's Daughter is scolding the Stable-Maid, when the King's Son enters, poorly clad as before. Though she despises his poverty, the Innkeeper's Daughter coquettes with him; for he is comely. She gives him food and drink, which seem coa.r.s.e to him, and advises him to get married. He declines and arouses the girl's anger.

The people enter, seat themselves and drink. A Gate-keeper forbids any to approach the gate, which must be left free for the coming King. Musicians enter, playing pipes and bagpipes. A dance begins. The Innkeeper and his servants bustle about. He sees the King's Son, who offers himself to him as an apprentice, but is told that there is no work for him, unless he is willing to be a swineherd. He consents.

The Woodcutter appears, with the Broom-maker and his thirteen daughters. The Woodcutter, swelling with importance, tosses a gulden on the Innkeeper's table, to wipe out an old score, but pockets it again when un.o.bserved.

One of the Broom-maker's daughters asks the King's Son to play at Ring-a-rosy with her. Their game is interrupted by the entrance of the Town Councillors and well-to-do Burghers, with their wives and children. The Councillors seat themselves in a tribune erected for them and the eldest of them invites the Woodcutter to relate his adventures in the woods. The King's Son is amazed to hear him tell of imaginary dangers which he has encountered with the Broom-maker. He learns from the Woodcutter's account, however, that on the stroke of twelve a King's Son, richly clad, and bright with gems, will enter by the now closed gate. He asks the people if the expected monarch might not come in rags. They laugh at the idea and he is accused of being a meddler, rogue and thief. The clock strikes twelve.

The crowd rushes toward the gate. An intuition warns the King's Son who is near. Then, as the gate is opened, the poor Goose-Girl enters, escorted by her geese. She tells the King's Son she has come to join him on his throne. But the crowd jeers at her and scorns her youthful lover and though the Fiddler storms and rages at their blindness, the two lovers are driven out with sticks and stones. Only the Fiddler and the little daughter of the Broom-maker believe them worthy of the throne.

This was where the curtain went down and I thought it was the end. Oh, how disappointed I was, and then how happy, when I knew there was another act.