drawing near the end of the season. The bell boys sat with folded
hands upon their bench; the telegraph instrument had ceased clicking;
the typewriter was still. The only sound heard was the dripping of the
water at the drinking fount. The season's rush was over. Nothing moved
across the floor except the shadows chasing away the sunshine which
streamed at times through the skylight. Half a dozen other wanderers--
all disconsolate--sat facing the big palm in the center of the room.
No one spoke a word. Perhaps we were all turning the blue curls of
smoke that floated up from our cigars into visions of home.

The first to move was one who had sat for half an hour in deep
meditation. He went softly over to the music box near the drinking
fount and dropped a nickel into the slot. Then he came back again to
his chair and fell into reverie. The tones of the old music box were
sweet, like the swelling of rich bells. They pealed through the white
corridor "Old Kentucky Home." Every weary wanderer began to hum the
air. When the chorus came, one, in a low sweet tenor, sang just
audibly:

"Weep no more, my lady,
"Weep no more to-day;
"We will sing one song, for my old Kentucky home,
"For my old Kentucky home far away."

When the music ceased he of meditation went again and dropped in
another coin. Out of the magic box came once more sweet strains--this
time those of Cayalleria Rusticana, which play so longingly upon the
noblest passions of the soul.

The magic box played its entire repertoire, which fitted so well the