"For twenty-five cents they can hear all that you hear down in your orchestra chair, for which you've paid so high a premium." "But who--who are they?
Where do they come from?
Who _would_ go and stand hours like that to get a twenty-five-cent seat ?" questioned Billy.
"Who are they?
Anybody, everybody, from anywhere?
everywhere; people who have the music hunger but not the money to satisfy it," he rejoined.
"Students, teachers, a little milliner from South Boston, a little dressmaker from Chelsea, a housewife from Cambridge, a stranger from the uttermost parts of the earth; maybe a widow who used to sit down-stairs, or a professor who has seen better days.

Really to know that line, you should see it for yourself, Miss Neilson," smiled Arkwright, as he reluctantly rose to go.

"Some Friday, however, before you take your seat, just glance up at that packed top balcony and judge by the faces you see there whether their owners think they're getting their twenty-five-cents' worth, or not." "I will," nodded Billy, with a smile; but the smile came from her lips only, not her eyes: Billy was wishing, at that moment, that she owned the whole of Symphony Hall--to give away.

But that was like Billy.

When she was seven years old she had proposed to her Aunt Ella that they take all the thirty-five orphans from the Hampden Falls Orphan Asylum to live with them, so that little Sallie Cook and the other orphans might have ice cream every day, if they wanted it.