Mrs. Burgoyne and Barry Valentine went down-town on the evening of the great day, to see the fireworks and the crowds, and to hear the announcements of prize-winners.  Santa Paloma was in holiday mood, and the two entered into the spirit of the hour like irresponsible children.  It was a warm, wonderful summer night; the sky was close and thickly spangled with stars.  Main Street bobbed with Japanese lanterns, rang with happy voices and laughter.  The jostling, pushing currents of men in summer suits, and joyous girls in thin gowns, were all good-natured.  Sidney found friends on all sides, and laughed and called her greetings as gaily as anyone.

Barry had a rare opportunity to watch her unobserved, as she went her happy way; the earnest happy brightness in her eyes, when some shabby little woman from Old Paloma laid a timid hand on her arm, her adoring interest in the fat babies that slumbered heavily on paternal shoulders, her ready use of names, “Isn’t this fun, Agnes?”—­“You haven’t lost Harry, have you, Mrs. O’Brien?”—­“Don’t you and your friend want to come and have some ice-cream with us, Josie?”

“But we mustn’t waste too much time here, Barry,” she would say now and then; for at eight o’clock a “grand concert program and distribution of prizes” was scheduled to take place at the town hall, and Sidney was anxious not to miss an instant of it.  “Don’t worry, I’ll get you there!” Barry would answer reassuringly, amused at her eagerness.

And true to his word, he stopped her at the wide doorway of the concert hall, fully five minutes before the hour, and they found themselves joining the slow stream of men and women and children that was pouring up the wide, dingy stairway.  Everyone was trying, in all good humor, to press ahead of everyone else, inspired with the sudden agonizing conviction that in the next two minutes every desirable seat would certainly be gone.  Even Sidney, familiar as she was with every grand opera house in the world, felt the infection, and asked rather nervously if any of the seats were reserved.

“Don’t worry; we’ll get seats,” said the imperturbable Barry, and several children in their neighborhood laughed out in sudden exquisite relief.

Seats indeed there were, although the front rows were filling fast, and all the aisle-chairs were taken by squirming, restless small children.  Mrs. Burgoyne sat down, and studied the hall with delighted eyes.  It was ordinarily only a shabby, enormous, high-ceiled room, filled with rows of chairs, and with an elevated stage at the far end.  But, like all Santa Paloma, it was in holiday trim to-night.  All the windows—­wide open to the summer darkness—­were framed in bunting and drooping flowers, and on the stage were potted palms and crossed flags.  Great masses of bamboo and California ferns were tied with red, white and blue streamers between the windows, and, beside these decorations, which were new for the occasion, were purple and yellow banners, left from the night