"Yes, sir," he said severely, "it is her name. But she has another
name, sweeter to those who love her, those who worship her, those who
have watched her with the eye of sedulous affection through the three
years she has spent beneath this roof, though that name," said Mr.
Faucitt, lowering the tone of his address and descending to what might
almost be termed personalities, "may not be familiar to a couple of dud
acrobats who have only been in the place a week-end, thank heaven, and
are off to-morrow to infest some other city. That name," said Mr.
Faucitt, soaring once more to a loftier plane, "is Sally. Our Sally. For
three years our Sally has flitted about this establishment like--I
choose the simile advisedly--like a ray of sunshine. For three years she
has made life for us a brighter, sweeter thing. And now a sudden access
of worldly wealth, happily synchronizing with her twenty-first
birthday, is to remove her from our midst. From our midst, ladies and
gentlemen, but not from our hearts. And I think I may venture to hope,
to prognosticate, that, whatever lofty sphere she may adorn in the
future, to whatever heights in the social world she may soar, she will
still continue to hold a corner in her own golden heart for the comrades
of her Bohemian days. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our hostess, Miss
Sally Nicholas, coupled with the name of our old friend, her brother
Fillmore."

Sally, watching her brother heave himself to his feet as the cheers died
away, felt her heart beat a little faster with anticipation. Fillmore
was a fluent young man, once a power in his college debating society,
and it was for that reason that she had insisted on his coming here
tonight.

She had guessed that Mr. Faucitt, the old dear, would say all sorts of