"O-ho," the undertaker clapped his hand to his head. "So _that's_ the ticket, hey? Well, I've always said I couldn't get away from much with that thing always there to identify me--but I never calculated it'd expose me to any proposals!" He laughed again--doubling up in what Pat thought a disgustingly ungraceful way. She held her head high and pushed Gyp toward the door. "We will say good-by," she concluded haughtily. "Say, kids, who are you, anyway?" His tone was quite unprofessional. "It is not necessary to divulge our identity," and with Gyp's arm firmly in her grasp Pat beat a hasty retreat. Safe outside in the corridor they fell into one another's arms, torn between tears and laughter. With mingled disgust and disappointment the Ravens decided then and there to let love follow its own blind, mistaken course. "Miss Gray can die an old maid before I'll ever face another creature like that!" vowed Gyp, and Pat echoed her words. "No one ever gets any thanks for meddling in other people's affairs, anyway," Peggy Lee offered. "Nice time to tell us _that_," was Gyp's irritable retort. That evening Miss Gray, charming in a soft lavender georgette dress, which her clever fingers had made and remade, wondered why her four young charges were so glum. There was nothing in the world _she_ loved so much as a symphony orchestra. She sat back in her chair, close to the edge of the box, with a happy sigh, and studied her program. Everything that she liked best, Chopin, Saint-Saens, and Wagner--Siegfried's Death. Gyp, eyeing her chaperon's happy anticipation, indulged in a whispered regret. "Doesn't she look pretty to-night? If that horrible creature only hadn't been----" The setting would have been so perfect for the denouement. She sprawled back, resignedly, in her chair, smothering a yawn. A flutter of applause marked the coming in of the orchestra. There was the usual scraping of chairs and whining of strings. Then suddenly Miss Gray leaned out over the box-rail, exclaiming incoherently, her hands clasping and unclasping in a wild, helpless way. An opening crash of the cymbals covered her confusion. The four girls were staring at her, round-eyed. They had not believed Miss Gray capable of such agitation! What _ever_ had happened---- "An old friend," she whispered, her face alternately paling and flushing. "A very dear--old--friend! The--the third--violin----" She leaned weakly against the box-rail. The girls looked down at the orchestra. There--under the leader's arm--sat the third violinist--and a white streak ran from his forehead straight back through his coal black hair! As though an electric shock flashed through them the four girls straightened and stiffened. A glance, charged with meaning, passed from one to another. Gyp, remembering the moment of confidence between her and Miss Gray, slipped her hand into Miss Gray's and squeezed it encouragingly.