Elsie gave a startled glance at Phil, not knowing what to say, and 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 hungry. I'm nearly starved. Oh, brother, I wisht I hadn't runned away! I don't _like_ to be a beggar," she wailed. Phil began patting her on the back. "Don't cry, sister," he begged. "We'll go back to that bake-shop we passed a little while ago, and get something to eat. Don't you remember how good it smelled? Come on! You'll feel better when you've had a lunch. I'll spend every penny we've got, if you'll only stop crying. We can make some more this afternoon." Elsie wiped her eyes on her shawl, let him help her to her feet, and obediently trotted after him as we went down the narrow back street, through which we had passed a few moments before. It was not far to the bakery. The opening of the door made a bell ring somewhere in the rear of the shop, and a fat, motherly old German woman came waddling to the front. Phil bought a bag of buns and another of little cakes, and was turning to go out again when Elsie climbed up on a chair near the stove, refusing to move. A cold wind had begun to blow outdoors, and her hands and wrists showed red below her short sleeves.