"Go straight down Fifth Avenue," she instructed the driver.
Spring, with its eternal sorcery, caressed the great city. Its spell
threw a sheen over the drab things Beryl remembered so well, the brick
schoolhouse, the Settlement, the dirty narrow street flanked by
dull-brown tenements with their endless fire escapes mounting higher and
higher, hung now with bedding of every color. The street swarmed with
children returning from school, and they gathered about the automobile
climbing on to the running board on either side and peering through the
windows.
"It's the Lynch girl," someone cried and another answered jeeringly.
"Aw, git off! Wot she doin' in this swell autymobile?"
Beryl did not mind in the least the street urchins; even though she had
lived among them, neither she nor Dale had ever been of them, thanks to
her mother's watchful care. She smiled at them and fled into the dark
alley way that led to the court which, all through her childhood, had
been her playground.
As she climbed, a dreadful thought appalled her. What if dear old
Jacques Henri had moved away--or died! But, no, at the very moment she
let the fear halt her climbing step she heard the dear sound of his
violin.
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