About half past nine Jennie beckoned Paul to come into the back parlor, which was comparatively deserted.

“I am going to ask a favor of you,” she said.

“I shall be glad to do anything you wish,” said Paul, earnestly.

“I am preparing a surprise for the company—something not down in the programme. I ask you to help me because you can sing.”

Paul blushed.

“I don’t call it singing,” he said, modestly.

“I am sure you have a very nice voice, Paul. Now I will tell you what I want. You and I are to dress as Italian street singers—I have a harp on which I can play a little. We will come in as soon as we are ready and surprise the company.”

“Will it be necessary to sing in Italian?” asked Paul, with a smile. “I have forgotten all mine.”

“You know as much as I do. We will sing some of the popular ballads. Here is a list which I have written down. Do you know them?”

Paul looked over the list and selected three which he felt able to sing.

“Very well,” said Jennie, with satisfaction. “You will find your suit ready in your dressing room. I have spoken to one of the boys—Arthur Constable—to go up and assist you. Now, will you be ready in fifteen minutes?”

“Yes,” answered Paul, confidently.

“I wonder what Jennie and the telegraph boy are talking about so earnestly!” thought Mark, with a scowl, for he had just noticed their conversation. “I never suspected that Jennie had such low tastes.”

An unpleasant frown gathered on Mark’s face, which he made no attempt to conceal. He was getting to dislike Paul more and more.

Next the two whose intimacy had provoked his discontent left the room, and his anger increased.

Presently, however, Mr. Cunningham entered the room and said, with a smile:

“Young people, I have engaged the services of two Italian minstrels, who will try to entertain you for a short time.”

Instantly there was a hush of expectation, for the announcement was understood literally.

The door was thrown open, and Paul and Jennie entered. Paul wore a suit of black velvet, and a hat also of velvet, in which it must be admitted he looked very handsome. Jennie was attired also in a characteristic national costume, and carried in her hand a harp.

As they entered together most of the company agreed that they made a very attractive picture.

They advanced, hand in hand, till they reached a position at the head of the room. Then Jennie struck her harp, and the two began to sing a favorite melody, their voices according remarkably well.

There was a sound of applause at the end of the first song. Paul bowed, and, taking his hat from his head, gravely made the round of the guests. Pennies were dropped by such as had them.

When Paul reached Mark he was tempted to pass him by, for he saw the scornful smile upon his face, but he did not care to make a scene, and held out his cap to him as well as the rest.

Mark dropped in a penny.

“That’s for the monkey,” he said, in a significant tone. “Keep it yourself.”

“Thank you,” said Paul, with unruffled good humor, for he felt that he could afford to be good natured. “Your liberality is unexpected.”

Mark bit his lips, foolishly taking offense at this good natured retort.

Another song was vociferously called for and given. Then a third was demanded, and the two minstrels retired amid a volley of plaudits.

“That was perfectly charming,” said Grace De Vere, enthusiastically. “What a nice looking boy that Paul Parton is! He looked perfectly lovely in his velvet suit.”

The boy to whom this was addressed was Mark Sterling, and it may well be believed that it was far from pleasing him.

“Are you falling in love with him?” he asked, with a sneer.

“I do believe I am!” answered Grace. “Don’t tell him, though!”

“I am not likely to. The fellow is conceited enough already.”

“Now, Mark, you are too bad. To me he seems remarkably modest.”

“He ought to have more sense than to push himself forward so, being only a telegraph boy.”

“I don’t care what he is; he is very nice and very good looking.”

“I suppose you admire his singing, too?”

“Yes, he has a sweet voice.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“I do believe you’re jealous of him, Mark. You don’t like it because Jennie didn’t ask you to take the part.”

This was really true, for Mark fancied himself a singer, though his voice was thin and shrill. Had he taken Paul’s part the effect would have been ludicrous, but, of course, he had no idea of this.

It so happened that he knew the three songs which had been sung, and he was very much annoyed to have been passed over in what was the pronounced success of the evening, and to see a mere telegraph boy selected instead of him.

“Jealous of a telegraph boy!” repeated Mark, with a scornful inflection. “I am not sunk quite so low as that.”

About eleven o’clock the party broke up. Being a juvenile party, it was not kept up as late as if it had been attended by older persons. Paul took his leave with the rest, feeling that he had enjoyed himself uncommonly well.

“I must thank you for a pleasant evening, Miss Jennie,” he said, as he said adieu to his youthful hostess.

“You did your part towards making it so, Paul.”

“Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Don’t forget to come soon to see us,” said Jennie, giving her hand to Paul.

Paul bowed his thanks, and left the house with three or four others in his company. Among them was Mark Sterling.

“Where do you live?” asked Mark, abruptly.

“Down town,” answered Paul, shortly. He felt reluctant to say that he lived in Ludlow Street, although he conjectured rightly that Mark would have no idea where it was situated.

“I thought, perhaps, you might live on Fifth Avenue.”

“Not at present; that may come later.”

Mark laughed disdainfully.

“When you give a party, I hope you will do us all the honor to send an invitation.”

“Would you accept?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

“I will bear it in mind. Now, let me bid you all good night.”

Mark was disappointed to find that not one of his companions would join in his sarcasms against the telegraph boy. All thought him very agreeable and very handsome, and Mark was at last obliged to give up his attack, and lapse into sullenness.

Paul walked to Sixth Avenue, though that was not the most direct route homewards, and in place of taking a car, walked slowly down the avenue. It was a pleasant night, and he felt broad awake, and by no means fatigued. It seemed to him pleasanter to walk part of the way at least. As he walked he fell into serious thought. He had left an elegant house, crowded with a gay and fashionable company, and he was going—where? To a miserable tenement house, in which he shared a poor and ill furnished room with a squalid and miserly old man, in appearance not above a tramp. Certainly the contrast was a startling one. As he dwelt upon it, Paul felt more and more disgusted with his home and surroundings.

“Why can’t I live in a refined house, among refined people?” he asked himself. “I feel much more at home with them than with old Jerry. Must I always live a beggar?”

Paul’s mental answer was an emphatic “No!” He was young and hopeful. The world was before him. He was poor, but other poor boys had raised themselves from poverty as great, and he felt that there was an equal chance for him.

His reflections were interrupted by the sight of a tall young man, not far in advance, whose unsteady gait showed that he was under the influence of liquor.