A question asked, and enthusiastically answered in the affirmative, over the telephone that morning, therefore, had speedily completed arrangements, and she had agreed to be at her friend's door by twelve o'clock, or before.
As it happened, business did not take quite so long as she had expected, and half-past eleven found her well on her way to Miss Henderson's home.
In spite of the warm sunshine and the slushy snow in the streets, there was a cold, raw wind, and Billy was beginning to feel thankful that she had not far to go when she rounded a corner and came upon a long line of humanity that curved itself back and forth on the wide expanse of steps before Symphony Hall and then stretched itself far up the Avenue.
"Why, what--" she began under her breath; then suddenly she understood.
It was Friday.

A world-famous pianist was to play with the Symphony Orchestra that afternoon.

This must be the line of patient waiters for the twenty-five-cent balcony seats that Mr.Arkwright had told about.
With sympathetic, interested eyes, then, Billy stepped one side to watch the line, for a moment.
Almost at once two girls brushed by her, and one was saying: "What a shame!--and after all our struggles to get here! If only we hadn't lost that other train!" "We're too late--you no need to hurry!" the other wailed shrilly to a third girl who was hastening toward them.

"The line is 'way beyond the Children's Hospital and around the corner now--and the ones there _never_ get in!" At the look of tragic disappointment that crossed the third girl's face, Billy's heart ached.

Her first impulse, of course, was to pull her own symphony ticket from her muff and hurry forward with a "Here, take mine!" But that _would_ hardly do, she knew--though she would like to see Aunt Hannah's aghast face if this girl in the red sweater and white tam-o'-shanter should suddenly emerge from among the sumptuous satins and furs and plumes that afternoon and claim the adjacent orchestra chair.