Phil, turning very red, moved away without answering.

The music-box was an old-fashioned affair that wound up noisily with
a big key. It played several jerky little waltzes and four plaintive
old songs: "Ben Bolt," "The Last Rose of Summer," "Then You'll
Remember Me," and "Home, Sweet Home." The children had sung them so
often that they knew all the words, and their voices rang out lustily
at first; but, about the twentieth time the same old round of tunes
began, little Elsie drew a deep, tired breath.

[Illustration]

"Oh, Phil," she said, "I _can't_ sing those songs all over again. I'm
sick of them." She sat down on the curbstone, refusing to join in the
melody, clasping her hands around her knees, and rocking back and
forth as the shrill voice of the music-box piped on alone.

"I just _hate_ 'Sweet Alice Ben Bolt,'" she complained. "Isn't it most
time to go home?" It was noon now. At the sound of the factory
whistles all our followers had deserted us, and gone home to dinner.
Phil sat down on the curbstone beside Elsie, and emptying the pennies
out of the little cup she had been carrying, gravely counted them.
"There's only eleven," he announced. "Of course we can't go home yet."

The music-box droned out the last notes of "You'll Remember Me," gave
a click, paused an instant as if to take breath, and then started
mournfully on its last number, "Be it ever so humble, there's no place
like home." At the first sound of the familiar notes, Elsie laid her
head down on her knees and began to weep dismally. "I wish I was back
in my home, sweet home," she cried. "I'm _so_ tired and cold and