“One more,” they shouted, “only one more, and her slippers shall be filled with gold dust.”  She slipped out of her little sandals and stood, blushing modestly, hiding her silken feet under her long, wide skirts.

“You are very kind to a lonely stranger,” she called, to an instantly silenced audience, “and I will sing for you a song which has but lately come from London.  ’Tis from a new opera called the Bohemian Girl, composed by Master Balfe,” and folding her little hands before her, she sang sweetly, “Then You’ll Remember Me.”

“When other lips and other hearts their tales of love shall tell Of days that have as happy been, and you’ll remember — you’ll remember me.”

“Dick, why do you cover your eyes?  You are surely not asleep?”

“By all the Gods, man, the accusation is an insult,” with a haughty flash of his great eyes.

“You are to be presented; have you forgotten?”

“Forgotten!  While life lasts, I shall remember this night.”

“Hush, this is the last.  She is singing, “Home, Sweet Home’.”

“Yes, ‘Home,’ for these wanderers from all over the earth.  See how silently they file out.”

“There is many a tear among them.  They will lie, tonight on memory’s couch of sad dreams.”

“You are wrong, my friend,” said Dick bitterly; “they are more like to hasten down to the gambling hells to kill the visions memory would recall.”

* * * * *

“Sweet Bird, you cannot believe this thing of me!” The Singer-Lady raised her bright head from Dick’s shoulder, and met, steadfastly, his passionately adoring eyes.

“Richard, how can you for one moment doubt me?  I know you to be good and true.  Were you not exonerated from the last accusation of which you informed me before you asked for my hand in marriage.  And do we not know that this man is actuated by the motive of jealousy ?”

“The Mormon beast!  He knows well that I did not steal his mule.”

“No’ naughty boy,” tapping him playfully with her fan, “’Twas something else you stole from Master Crow the woman he wanted.  Often have I noticed on the streets how all women, every one, turn to look after you.”

“I cared not for her.”  He shook his tall and beautiful head, impatient of the silky black lock which fell across his forehead.

“Perhaps then ’tis your magnificent carriage they would admire,” laughed the girl, teasingly.

Dick swept her close to his heart.  “My golden-throated dove, I cannot join in your sweet laughter, for I have a boding heart, this day.  I have enemies.  They will use my past record.  The courts are new, and judgments swift and cold.  If they should send me again to the penitentiary I — "

“Dearest I should know you to be innocent, and I should wait for you.”

He kissed her tenderly on cheeks, and eyes, and mouth.  He took her hands from his shoulders, slipping off the little silken mitts and putting them in an inner pocket, and kissed the soft, pink palms.